With the pained, ragged wheeze, the noise that flowed through his rust-ridden bones, it was like some foreign yet oh so familiar rush that invigorated him. As the sniper's shot hit home and the stones fell, he let out a low breath. His muscles relax slightly, letting down his guard.

Is it over? Please tell me it's over.

Alas, wishful thinking couldn't grant the truth. The beast had started moving again, Thrashing and swinging about its extremities, he tried to back away… only to be directly hit by the crocidile-clad tail as it swung toward him.

”Oh fu-”

It was like being hit by a cannonball, or at least felt like it. He felt almost weightless as he was effectively swatted away, not-so-gracefully gliding through the air before making rough contact with the ground. Once. Then twice. Skidding to a stop roughly ten feet away from where he was. His hat had flitted away in the breeze of the tumble, a soft groan escaping his lips as his now bruised and bleeding hands grasped at gravel… the incessant buzzing of the rust gnats that stayed ever persistent rang in his head like a splitting chime in an echoing chasm… As the dust in the air settled, Elio had found himself coughing up blood, his throat burning from the metallic fluid as he shakily attempted to calm his erratic breathing. Everything hurt, but his chest more so. He couldn't tell if he had broken or just bruised a rib or three, but he was still alive, or at least conscious. That's what mattered when everything was said and done.

He felt around with bloodied fingers, searching for his weapon, but his fingers didn't touch it's familiar biting rust… just more rocks and pulverized debris.

Did I loose it on impact…? I hope no one got impaled…

Light shuffling against the ground could be heard as he tried to raise himself, trying to get up despite the pain shooting through his limbs… and it was not an easy attempt…

What is more humbling than a man being brought to his knees in a single strike? I'm really not as resilient as I would like to think… I'm no Quasit, I'm just a man with rust between his flesh and bone…

It took too much energy than it was worth. He needed to conserve whatever the beast had left him with. He had to trust that the others would finish the bastard off… But then again, he could still help… he just needed his weapon back.

"Ugh… Where did you run off to…?"

The Stone-Horn struggled against the grappler on its face as it begins to slam its tail into the ground repeatedly in order to free itself from the larger assailants. Unfortunately for my rock loving friend, it doesn't take long for the poison released into its skull to reach its brain. The neurotoxin dampening the beast's reaction time also weakened its struggling as a burning sensation seared throughout its head. The assailants were scattering, its focus was waning, and blood was becoming a scarce resource.

Internally, metallic shrapnel and a loose nail were traveling to the center of the Stone-Horn's torso. The monster hardly noticed as a diet consisting of rock and metal meant its guts were used to this kind of damage. Except, for three facets; the nail within its lung puncturing a second hole getting out, the condensing shards forming larger pieces that trap organs between them like a vice, and the new ball in its stomach causing that area to bulge and bleed even faster. The creature was going to die. It was no longer a matter of will but when, and it knew this. In its desperation, the dying beast goes into its death throes. Its maw forces itself open despite Vhoth's insistence that it doesn't and it bites down into the quasit's left side. It tears off his arms and a good chunk of his torso with a sickening rip as bones crack and muscles tear. This was a wound a quasit could survive, but would take a month or more to recover from without flesh magic not currently available in Nora.

Vhoth perseveres with an even greater feat of strength, and pushes the Stone-Horn onto its hind legs with his remaining arms. This creates the opening necessary for the rifleman to make his final shot. A precise shot into its stomach where the hide had already been ripped asunder. The same stomach that a ball of rust had been formed by a hapless rodent. The bullet impacted the orb, causing it the break back into its fragments and cause the organs that had been vice-gripped to fall apart and bleed out of the gashes onto the ground. The smell was like decaying meat and rotten soil, not too dissimilar from the putrid air that wafts from a graveyard after heavy rain. The young beast goes limp and falls to the ground as Vhoth releases it to fall backwards himself. It can no longer move its legs or tail, and its head slogs side to side as it weakly gnashes at anything close to it. Any rocks that remain on its body drop, revealing its true size that looks small now that it is laying on the ground defeated. The beast was born from Quasi-Magic infecting the earth you walk upon, from dust it came and to dust it shall return. The stones have already begun degrading, and oily cracks run up its legs and down its horns as the Stone-Horn falls apart.

Congratulations combatants! As you patch yourselves up, re-gather your dropped equipment, and assist those who need it; this beast slowly dies in front of you with labored breaths that rattle and whistle through the holes in its punctured lung and its form erodes into dust and oil. This young male had attacked the wall as many other young Stone-Horns had in the past, and he was the unlucky one who had broken through without even realizing he would succeed and that his reward would be death. You have killed an ignorant child. I hope you're proud of yourselves.

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The marksman's final shot did more damage then he had expected, but it seemed to be enough to bring the beast down after the amount of damaged it had sustained. Cyrus packed up his rifle and shut down the spell that was enhancing his eyesight before approaching his allies. The smell of the beast's corpse managed to even seep through the gas mask he was wearing, and so he knew that he certainly wasn't taking that off for communications. Luckily for him, he had just the kinesis for that problem and began taking stock of his allies to see where he might be needed. The Four-Armed Quasit would need to be transported, but Cyrus was not strong enough to assist there. The Doctor had made her way over to the injured giant and the Rat-Folk and the Small Quasit were already assisting the Croc-Folk out of her mess. The Cephalo-Folk was mending his own injuries, and so that left one person unattended.

The Spearman had gotten to his feet by the time Cyrus reached him, looking for where his spear had gotten flung to. It wasn't good for him to be up already after a hit like that. Not counting broken bones, there was also a chance of concussion and the man seemed mildly disoriented, but then again, who wouldn't be after a hit like that. The watchmen approached him and softly stopped him and spoke into his mind.

"You shouldn't be standing right now. You could worsen your condition if you suffered a concussion or if a rib punctured your lungs. You should sit and wait for the doctor to come check on you. I will assist in locating your spear. You just stay here and I'll return."

Switching through different states of enhancement, Cyrus estimated the trajectory of the spear to lower the search radius and began scanning the area. It took him a few minutes to locate it buried under some rubble that came loose from the building it had slammed into. The only member of this group to be fighting with a legitimate weapon as opposed to knives and fisticuffs was using this as his weapon? he thought as he lifted a rusted and jagged piece of scrap metal that was at least spear shaped. Cyrus was certain when he applied that he would be the most inexperienced. Sure, he had some rifle training and some magic to help that, but his job experience pretty much only taught him how to keep his eyes open even when there was nothing to look at. Then he heard rumors that the newest recruits were chosen with different criteria, and now he was certain he might have the most experience. That prospect would terrify him if it wasn't for his stain making it just a spine-tingle before the emotion faded.

He walked back with the spear and propped it against the wall of the closest building. Cyrus sat down near the spearman and spoke into his mind yet again.
"We should look into getting you a better weapon. And then you and I should try and teach this group some combat basics. If nothing else, we need to be more coordinated. Some of our abilities may work surprisingly well together."

@EchoWolff

Elio's vision swam as he struggled to his feet, as if the gravel beneath his feet were melding together, becoming fluid, and effervescent as he stumbled about, fruitlessly searching for one of the only stable things that has ever stood stalwart in his life. His weapon. Although, it seemed even that had abandoned him. His limbs felt as if they were fraying at the edges, the pain crackling like flames across his flesh…

Shivers, tingles spreading like cobwebs as a gentle yet firm hand gripped his shoulder. Instinctively he shuddered, a cold chill instead of the warmth one would expect. Then came the voice, chiming in his brain like a crystal bell, yet it stood in a strange limbo between auditory sound and a eerie knowledge that the words were there…

”The hell? Why are you-”

His thoughts derailed quickly, some feeling of deja vu overcoming his senses, a spark flying from his heart, heated like slag struck from metal… a familiar gesture, but not as rough as he remembered it.

A moment’s consideration of the watchman’s transferred speech… It didnt feel as painful as a few minutes ago, but that could just be the adrenaline pulsing through his veins at present. Shakily, he nodded, but didn't move to sit down. He didnt want to aggravate anything else by moving. Not yet at least.

Instead, he began assessing whatever physical damage he could see, namely his outfit. Noticeably dusty, dustier than usual, his coat now pelted with nicks and scratches. Looking up again as Osprey returned, his weapon in hand.

As the watchman rested the scrap-spear against the wall, Elio’s eyes never left it, like some kind of magnetism. When the voice snuck into his head again, his gaze flicked back to Osprey.

”Well… Sometimes new tricks need some old tools. We can wait on the equipment, but tactics we can discuss… A-after I lie down for a while...”

Maybe standing while this unsteady was a bad idea…

@Kronshi