[color=#007FFF][b][u][h1][sub][sub][sub]Farren[/sub][/sub][/sub][/h1][/u][/b][/color]		    managed–barely–to reach the ground and even to begin a quickstep–before Arrayah’s bulk slammed into him from the side so fast that even if he’d had the proper rune to predict it, it would not have mattered in the least.

He’d been moving quickly already, but struck as hard as he’d been, it utterly canceled his backwards momentum and instead sent him hurtling into the wall with a sickening crunch and splatter. The only blessing was that his head didn’t strike first, of course that also meant that he experienced every micro-second of agony. Of course, on this night of the hunt, pain had become his bedfellow and though it was all-encompassing, Farren acted as his body dragged down to the floor. He couldn’t support his own weight immediately, not after such a blow, but his hand went to his blood vials and then stabbed one into his thigh. That had done enough damage to warrant it, he could quite literally feel it in his bones. Their creaking, the snap and squelch [i]inside[/i] his body as they forced themselves back into the right positions and began to mend–just a bit slower than before.

He felt his jaw realign, his teeth regrow or shift back together and seal into their proper alignment, seams he couldn’t see disappearing as the enamel became whole again. He gagged, but didn’t retch–nothing in his stomach beyond bile–and Farren was glad for that at least. [color=#007FFF][b]“Agh…”[/b][/color] the sound of a pained exclamation rasped up his throat once it was no longer collapsed. He wrenched in air, and even that ached, his lungs mostly reformed, but not yet without bruises and damage.

The surge of healing from the vial sped up the process, but the healing hurt in its own frightfully ruinous manner. Muscles rapidly reknitting, bones snapping into place, crackling, their fibers growing into eachother and fusing, Shards of bone that couldn’t be salvaged shoving out through muscle and skin, bloody as they fell beneath and around him. Farren braced a hand on the wall and as his legs, hips, and back mostly aligned, he pushed to his feet with a groan.

The whole process took only a few seconds, but it felt far longer.

[color=#007FFF][b]“Cursed beast,”[/b][/color] he snarled, his voice hoarse and pained as he clutched at his stomach. He slowly moved his head–eyes much faster for they’d already fully mended–and found the beastflayer nearby. He bent down with a wince and snatched it up. By the time he rose he was mostly hale and whole again, and rapidly getting there. He regarded Gerlinde as she’d approached and nodded once. Arrayah seemed…resistant to non-physical damage, but he figured the beastflayer was plenty [i]solid[/i]. So he fed the Horn of the Old Lords some quicksilver, and offered up his weapon.

It burst into flames, fortunately not in a way that touched his skin, though he felt the lick of its nearby heat against his skin and through his hunter’s garb.

Farren took in a breath, cocked his arm back, focusing his strength, and then whipped the beast flayer out, releasing it into its whip-blade form. He’d done something he’d seen Torquil manage a number of times now: a strong attack.