He reached down with a trembling, blood-soaked hand and grabbed the thick chitin leg near the spike and gritted his teeth.
With a sharp grunt of pain, he pushed the dead leg away from his body.
The spike slid out of his flesh with a wet, sickening sound. Fresh blood spilled out of the puncture wound, soaking into the ruined inner lining of his Badger armor.
It hurt like hell, a sharp, throbbing fire that made him want to throw up, but he was damn alive. His lung was intact. His ribs were bruised to hell, but at least not fully broken.
He grabbed the hilt of the Dreadwing Blade with both hands again. Planting his boot on the cracked skull, he violently ripped the blade out.
A fresh, foul-smelling spout of ruined brain matter and gore splashed across his boots.
