The small feeling of a hard-won victory that the dark-skinned man felt as the stone bit into the lion's flesh once again was a sweet sensation but sadly shortlived. He gripped his stone tight and reared back for another blow, channeling all his anger into his arm.

But as the manlike clutches of the lion closed around him and the claws bit into his pillowy sides, his concentration broke and he clung to his stone, his sole weapon under the watchful eye of the stone faces, for dear life.

As the lion dropped him to the ground and he felt the hot lines of pain that the lion's grip had left on his flanks and back, he grit his teeth hard to the point that they threatened to crack. He would not die here as this beast's toy. 

He was dizzy, and bruised. He was weakening. But still, he roared at the beast, bloody stone in his hand as he took his chance and leapt forward. He would go straight for its eyes and throat. Blind it and they might stand a chance of survival. Even if that meant he would end up with a nasty bite or two.