He threw his spear, almost casually, into this fretwork, and the net deformed fluidly on impact, and so it was through the bone that his spearpoint lodged into your large intestine. This sounded similar to a nail being rammed into a sausage. Your blood gushed like carbonated water. You tumbled through the doorway in a cascade of jostling, bouncing bits of bone, the scabbard jolting you roughly, rolling over and over until you lay bleeding at the feet of—

“Ortus!” said Mercymorn. She did not sound horrified, but deeply peeved. Your vision swam, and you smelled hot toast. “What are you doing??”

You curled on your side. The black haze was already starting to dim around your edges. You were not so apt with healing yourself, back then. You heard: “Is she dead?—Stay there, you idiot! Hands where I can see them! What were you thinking? Oh, he’s going to be furious! You egg!”

Harrow the Ninth - Act Two, Chapter Nineteen