Blood pours down the former soldier's face as he tries to find footing to avoid the repeated slashes of the mutant's rusted cleaver. Pressed against the terrified carthorses, he had no room to maneuver and is forced to do little more than cower behind his shield as the grunting, hairy creature batters at his shield. The entire world narrowing to a translucent red haze, Lothar finds it increasingly difficult to block the thing's strikes.

He mutters a barely audible and not entirely gentle prayer to Shallya (for the blood flow to stall) and to Ranald (that the creature would slip and break a kneecap).

"Get this thing off me! It'd be real nice!" he calls, his voice distorted by effort.