[ Of course getting transferred (again) isn't as simple as crashing in by a nice Oska festival, kitchens churning out a feast. No, when Lancer gets rifted back to this neck of the multiverse, it's raining. So much rain. His bangs cling miserably to his forehead and thunder growls overhead as something else grumbles nearby, slithering about the underbrush. A welcome party featuring: ...just monsters, probably. Not that he could expect anything different, his life being what it is.

So after sharing a choice obscenity with the sky, he flicks water out of his eyes, assessing. He'd like to indulge in hunting, but having his main magical crutch chopped means it's time for caution. Coolheadedness. And making use of his oh-so-capable teammates, some of which are here expressly for a gallant rescue. Being sensible is dull, but he accepts his fate with minimal bitching. One entire groan later, ]

Hey. I hate to ask— [ he isn't sorry to be an inconvenience so much as a bore, but details. he waves towards the nearest beast. ] Y'mind taking care of... whatever that is?

[ Truly a damsel in distress. One that's too busy crossing his arms and cocking a hip to pull out a weapon (if he's got one at all). All that said, Lancer's unruffled by the swarm of crystalline wasps (or a mutated, spiky incarnation of hopelessness that spits acid and misery, or whatever monster of the week it is—). Instead, he perks up, grinning. ] I'm sure you can handle it.

[ Just watch the odd dimensional pothole or two. Or many. Actually—whole, broad swatches of the sky seem to flicker in and out of this reality, distorting with some other time.

A sign of bigger issues, maybe, but not getting eaten is priority numero uno. ]

[ leave me a blank comment/any preferences and i'll write you a starter! or hit me up with your own prompt, i'm game for anything c: ]