[He opens his mouth to yell—bellicose and triumphant—but the sound pivots into a pitchy, wet, broken note. An angry red line unleashes blood from the side of his throat, blood pouring from the gash made by Silco's makeshift knife. Jayce releases his hold, instinct electrifying his fingers to throat, covering it — no damage to the trachea but still too close, too dangerous to leave unanswered. He'd need medical aid. Thighs give way to adrenaline, he falls back, eyes wide. Heart rate surging.]
Fuck, [a cough of blood,] you.
[Jayce kicks out his heel, aiming wildly for Silco's head, hand, anything, his unbooted foot vulnerable to impact.]
no subject
Fuck, [a cough of blood,] you.
[Jayce kicks out his heel, aiming wildly for Silco's head, hand, anything, his unbooted foot vulnerable to impact.]