Marshall sighed. His patience was wearing thin; not from the scientists that were dead and drained of blood, nor the suddenness of the tentacle that lashed at his very presence -- not even from the creature that thought itself greater than a rat before a lion. No, these were all pesky thoughts; buzzing around his head like flies around a corpse -- minor frustrations with simple solutions, and nothing more. Death was an unavoidable thing; if he hadn't killed the scientists, they would have died anyways. If he didn't step into lashing range, the blind flailing of the tentacle was little more than a stage hazard.

And, as for the little creature...

Inhaling, Marshall set himself firmly on his right leg, pivoting himself on his hip, and tensing his right arm; swelling the blood in The Touch of Virtue for an explosive burst. Firmly set, he exhaled, “[color=a187be]...six... seven... eight...[/color]” before swinging himself forward, and driving his fist into the creature's maw. Perhaps, innumerable rows of teeth, jagged and shredding, ground against singular sleeve of indomitable armor; a creature used to consumption before conception found its savage greed awarded with drying blood, as it drooled upon an impregnable defense.

	“[color=a187be]...ten,[/color]” Marshall finished, opening his fist, releasing the blood stored like a cannon blast with the compression of a shotgun burst. Impossibly unguarded, the creature found itself bereft of a greater portion of its skull, and, with its most fleeing thoughts, it could understand one thing: its greed was never to be greater than that of its target. Marshall's fingers sank into the beast, and started to pull out its blood with reckless abandon; he needed all he could get to blast down the tentacle.

“[color=a187be]A Savage can only challenge a Savant,[/color]” Marshall says, casting the husk aside. After a moment, he frowned, “[color=a187be]Damn it all. I'm getting old,[/color]” he rubbed his temples, “[color=a187be]Spouting off one-liners after a fight. I swear, if I call someone, “Bub,” I'll shoot myself.[/color]” Looking up, he observed the tentacle again, and took better notice of the wounds that it bore. “[color=a187be]Slash marks. Unique. Uniform. These aren't made by manufactured weapons, but claws. The Erune,[/color]” he concludes, “[color=a187be]I guess, kitty got claws, after all. I'll just follow her lead, then.[/color]”

Marshall watched the range of the tentacle, and then stepped back a few odd steps, before he jumped forward, and ripped his fingers into the deepest wound; blood sprayed from the brutal rend, and he drank it up.

[color=a187be][center][i]Greedily.[/i][/center]

[center][i][b]Hungrily.[/b][/i][/center]

[center][i][b][u]Unendingly.[/u][/b][/i][/center][/color]
	Marshall grinned, sickly, powerfully,  as The Touch of Virtue burned at his skin, as if, attempting to nudge him off the metaphorical edge; trying to be the blessedly light object it was, despite its darkened visage. “[color=a187be]Not going to work,[/color]” he says, as the glove was gushing blood in excess; it would only hold so much before reaching capacity. “[color=a187be]I need more pieces. I need more hearts. I need my heart,[/color]” remembered the thief, before he released the shriveled tentacle. Surely, a Primal Beast had plenty of blood; still, he'd taken a lion's share, judging from the pool that flowed behind him. “[color=a187be]I need to focus on my heart...[/color]”

Sighing, he focused on his heartbeat, and found it so far away, so far down. “[color=a187be]I guess, I am going down, then,[/color]” he says, walking to the hole in the wall. “[color=a187be]Expressly.[/color]”

Not a moment of hesitation crossed him, as he stepped off the edge, and plummeted for the ground.