His back to the tree, Symon, Safiya, and Aslan had formed a triangle surrounding the razor stalker. Serik had continued to launch shots from his giant bow, but now that it was free of the net it had a much easier time avoiding them. It was certainly annoyed by all the attacks, but didn't seem particularly injured even including the arrows sticking out of it. At the very least, its movement wasn't being impeded.
With the pipe positioned over his shoulder like he was winding up with a baseball bat, Symon waited for an opportunity to strike. The stalker had surely recognised he was there already; it was simply choosing to focus on the others. This meant he needed to wait until it had committed itself to an attack before striking, considering how cumbersome it was to swing such a heavy weapon. There would be no rapid attacks like Safiya with her daggers, but hopefully the weight of the blow meant it could crush through the natural armour of the creature where previous attacks had failed.
It looked like he'd get a chance to test this soon, as the creature renewed its assault on Aslan's shield, slashing its scythe arms into it and shearing off a large chunk of its side, despite being made of solid metal. Seizing this opportunity, he let loose with the most powerful swing he could muster, slamming the heavy metal pipe into the creature's side with a satisfying crack. Not one to be shown up, his magic also lashed out, connecting to what he now saw was a ceramic like carapace as he focused his magic and empowered the draining. It had several noticeable cracks through the shell on the side of its torso, but it didn't appear to be dented inwards.
He was confident that he could do some serious damage given a few good swings at that spot, but of course the stalker wasn't going to allow that. He'd drawn its attention, which meant his allies could continue their attacks... but also meant he'd drawn the dangerous monsters attention. The range of his magic meant it could only drain the stalker when he stepped close during an attack, and wasn't safe to continually maintain, especially now that it was actively trying to kill him.
Stepping back and out of reach of his magic, he switched his grip on the pipe to hold it in a way that would hopefully allow him to block; two hands spaced far apart, holding it horizontally. It was a thick weapon, and the metal hadn't accrued a single scratch on it during his travels, but he wasn't sure how it would hold up against his most fearsome opponent yet. Seemingly aiming to cut straight through it like it had done to Aslan's spear, the stalker simply slashed downwards toward Symon.
With a sound like two pieces of metal slamming into one another, the bone blades caught on the metal pipe. If they'd penetrated through, they would have sliced him right down through his chest, something that would surely have killed him considering his vessel contained just the barest sliver of vitality from that brief moment he'd been able to drain it. If only he had more range to his magic, even just a single extra metre could make all the difference.
As Symon wasn't near fast enough to even attempt dodging the lightning-fast attacks, blocking had been his best option. That didn't mean it was perfect though, especially when he wasn't using a shield or even a sword with a proper cross guard. His vitals were protected, but not his whole body. He recognised the danger right as the stalker did, but that didn't count for much when the creature was so much faster.
Tilting its blades to the side, the stalker scraped them across the pipe with a ringing schwing sound. They were so sharp that at first he barely even felt it as the fingers on his left hand went flying off.
Numbly, he looked down at his hand. It hadn't even started hurting yet, nothing remaining except for the thumb and four tiny stumps. Shock and adrenaline can only do so much though, something Symon discovered as he felt his hand bloom into burning agony.
Stumbling back, he awkwardly waved the club one handedly in an effort to ward off the monster from approaching, so caught up in his survival that he wasn't even worried about potentially being crippled. What use was worrying about future problems when you were seconds away from death?
Coming to his rescue was Serik, whose attack was heralded by a sharp whistling sound as another one of his arrows thudded into the monster, this time perfectly hitting where Symon's pipe had cracked its carapace. The resulting injury was the biggest the stalker had taken yet, the massive arrow burying itself almost all the way up to its fletching. While previously a light brown, almost wheat-like colour — a perfect match to the surrounding half-dead grass — the carapace around the injury seemed to fade to a dull green.
Another hiss of pain and rage sent Symon's ears ringing, although instead of taking this chance to strike it charged past Symon, in the direction the arrow had came from. If his mind were clearer, he probably would have been confused by the actions of the stalker — why did it keep switching who it was attacking instead of finishing them off one by one? Naturally, instead of considering the oddity in its behaviour, he was focused more on his sudden lack of fingers. He felt the tiny sliver of vitality he'd stolen shoot out of his vessel towards his missing fingers, but if it had any effect, he didn't notice it.
He stared dumbly at the stumps on his left hand as they spurted out blood, just his thumb remaining. To say they hurt badly was an understatement — they felt as if someone was shoving burning hot pokers into his flesh — but he wasn't completely overwhelmed by the pain. He could still think, even if he found it difficult to concentrate on the ongoing battle.
Letting out a shuddering breath, he shoved the hand under his armpit and squeezed it tightly, hoping to prevent some of the blood loss. Turning around, he rapidly took in how badly things had gone. It wasn't that he'd been distracted for a long time, but simply how fast the razor stalker could move and attack when it was unimpeded.
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At the base of the tree lay Serik, bow snapped in twain and short sword only half drawn. Symon was close enough to see the rapidly expanding pool of blood under him. They'd thought the distance would keep him safe, but the man had paid for this miscalculation dearly. Symon didn't have any vitality to spare, the small amount he'd managed to take from the stalker already gone. There was no possible way for him to get the quantity of vitality he needed fast enough, except by taking the rest of the monster's.
The others were shouting and screaming something in their native tongue, leaving Keelgrave unable to translate, but the meaning of the words came through clear enough. They were equal parts grief and rage, as they sprinted after the stalker that had turned back to face them.
The monster spread its arms wide as if to welcome then, before it too began charging towards its opponents. Aslan threw his mostly ruined shield towards the creature as he charged it, dealing no real damage as it cracked off its shoulder but giving him a chance to get in close without being immediately cut down. Gripping his short sword with two hands placed atop one another, he swung his blade into that of the stalker's, biting into the bone weapon and forcing the monster to pit its strength against Aslan's just to move one of its arms.
As this happened, Symon had already begun sprinting after the pair, tossing his club to the side as he did so. It was too heavy to use effectively with only one functioning hand and would currently only serve to slow down his run. As it stood, he had only one weapon left to use, dangerous as it may be to get close enough to use. It would still be a few seconds before he was in range, meaning he could do nothing as the stalker raised its other blade into the air, all its attention on the nuisance that had dared to lock its weapon blade to blade.
Thankfully, Safiya was there to intercept, ramming her one remaining dagger straight into the elbow joint of the monster, where the scythe blade met the rest of the arm. The creature, with its single-minded rage, had once again largely ignored all the other threats to focus on what was currently annoying it the most. Even with this glaring weakness they were still a razor's edge away from sudden death.
The creature's right arm was still locked together with Aslan's sword, while its left arm hung limply at its side after Safiya's attack. Its main weapons were disabled, but these weren't all it had. Stooping its tall frame downwards, it snapped forwards with its mandibles, barely missing Safiya as she danced backwards. Simultaneously, Aslan yanked its arm downwards with all the force he could muster, trying to throw the monster off balance.
He succeeded, at least partially, giving Symon enough of an opening that as he arrived at the battle — approaching from behind the monster once again — he struck. Not with a physical weapon, or with his hands, but with his magic.
Pushing off the ground with as much strength as his legs could give, he launched himself through the air higher than he'd ever imagined he would be able to. His damaged hand trailed several ribbons of blood as he shot through the air, impacting the monster from behind as he wrapped his arms under its shoulders in a bear hug. This was a similar strategy to what he'd used against the so-called sand panther back in the collapsed tower, and he hoped it would be as effective.
It was painful, both because of how rough and sharp the monster's exterior was and how hard he was squeezing with his damaged hand. He only had the knuckles and tiny stubs protruding from them on that hand, so he was pressing with his palm of that hand to try and hold on — this was not how you were meant to treat such a wound. He could feel his magic greedily ripping away the vitality of the monster, and he gave his full attention to accelerating the process as much as possible.
The warmth of that precious resource washed away the pain, although he knew this was simply because of how intense the euphoric feeling of power entering his system was and not because it had already healed his injuries. For the first time in a while, he wasn't forced to scrape up the barest fraction of a sliver of vitality from grass that was already mostly dead before he'd even gotten to it, or to laboriously cull centipedes for their meagre life force. He'd been lacking for so long, but now a veritable feast awaited him, and he wasted no time digging in.
He could feel the bonfire of the creature's life force, like a blazing star in a lifeless void — he would extinguish it and take the power for himself. He'd been starved of food and water until recently, and yet quenching his thirst then didn't feel nearly as good as it did now. The others were shouting and screaming something, but he didn't — couldn't — care. The monster had thought itself better than him, had thought it could get away with killing his new friends, had toyed with them. He'd show it just how stupid it had been!
The shouts of his allies were growing distant — both due to the increasing distance and the thickening bloodlust clouding his mind — but that didn't matter. He was still holding on to the creature as it fled like a coward, so it would die like one too.
He felt a line of hot pain flash across his back, once, twice, so he looked down to investigate the cause. The one functional blade of the stalker was wrapped around the creature's body as if it were hugging itself. It scraped and slashed its way across Symon's back, but why should he care? He didn't need his back intact to continue to flood his veins with molten power. Still, when the creature found the proper angle to stab into Symon instead of just across him, he got mad.
He was already ripping the vitality out as fast as he could, and all of his limbs were needed to maintain his stranglehold on the creature's body... but he had one final method of attack he could use.
'Die! Die! Wither and die you bastard!" he shouted at the creature before rearing back. "Think you can stab me and get away with it?!" He coughed out a splatter of blood onto the creature's back. "Think again!" he screamed before slamming his forehead into the creature's carapace, right where his blood had landed.
Something cracked, and it wasn't his opponent, but he could already feel his vessel launch out a wave of the stolen vitality to mend some inconsequential injury. Pulling back, he slammed his head down once more. This time his aim was slightly off, and he felt his nose break. He didn't care. You didn't need a nose to kill.
"Die! Die! You are nothing!" he screamed out before repeatedly slamming his head into the same spot. Despite the blood in his eyes, he could feel the monster slowing and weakening every second as the cracking noise continued, even as his own grip weakened — the injuries building up faster than he could heal them.
Pounding his head against the slowly expanding spiderweb of cracks, Symon broke down in manic laughter.
Keelgrave joined in, too.