Leonard didn't know which would come first: losing consciousness or his neck snapping. Blackness crept at the edges of his vision.
Fleshripper rubbed its mutilated arm stump against Leonard's face, smearing blood and gore across his cheek. "See.... Fresh meat..." it rasped.
Leonard's face was now coated in foul-smelling Gnoll blood, but he was too close to death to feel disgust or repulsion.
"Enough..." Fleshripper growled, its remaining hand tightening, crushing Leonard's windpipe. Darkness flooded Leonard's vision; the feeling of fainting was already present.
A metallic whistle sliced through the battlefield air. It was sharp, piercing, like a streak of lightning given voice, screaming like an enraged dragon of pure light. Leonard, his consciousness fading, dimly saw a blinding flash in the direction of the sound, barely registering what was happening.
