The sickly overheated taste of blood quickly flooded the gaps between Chisel's perfectly rearranged front teeth. A sudden unseen blow—a swing of a oak mallet to his lower jaw—proved a great enough force to bring the mighty build of his man crumbling to his knees, waning and confused, before succumbing in a collapse to the ground. That was no doubt several moments ago now he figured. Left unarmed and helpless in the presence of such beasts and yet through some divine act, or so he figured, he remained alive. “Paah!” he cried with a disgusted hurl, spiting every last ounce of blood from the swollen insides of his mouth. He stretched his arm along the nearest tuft of grass. A sword greeted the tips of his fingers—someone else's sword no doubt, it was idle and bloodied, and still clung tightly about the severed hand of the Wildman that fell swinging it. He snatched it without delay.

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