Faolan was in full blood-lust, thrashing and slashing at everything that moved before him. He had put two on their knees and knocked three out cold. The last Englishman was backing up, clutching the steel pipe to his chest as if it would protect him. He was muttering something, but Faolan couldn't hear him over the blood pounding in his ears. 

He approached the cowering fool and raised a hand to land a hammer blow against his prey's face, but stopped in the back-swing as something caught his attention. His name? Had Lucien called his name? He grunted and glanced over his shoulder, looking slightly confused, and saw the young man standing near the door. It was then that he noticed the wreckage he had wrought all around them in the room. The three of seven that remained conscious were looking up at Faolan in terror, shielding their faces as they peered at him through their fingers. It was a look he was familiar with, and it snapped him out of his frenzy. For a moment, he feared he had killed someone, so intense was his rage, but they all appeared to be breathing as he scanned the room.

He saw the last crumpled in the corner, but knew he had never entered the frey. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and nodded toward the body, [color=a36209]"You do that?" [/color] That one wasn't dead either, luckily, but Lucien had clearly re-opened his broken nose, and by the sight of him, he had used his own face to do it.