THE FOLLOWING IS WRITTEN WITH THE ADVANCE CONCURRENCE OF SPAN-INQ:
Ivan was not dead.
That which had spilled his blood, was.
What the warrior Vissarion had dreaded, had happened: one of the demonic beasts had gotten the idea of grabbing a hostage, a human shield--and Ivan had been elected.
Dragged by one leg (from which the drops of blood had fallen), Ivan had been in too much pain to reflect on his life, or on what that other briefly-met warrior, Mo'ajin, had said about redemption or salvation or something like that. This had been followed by a sensation for which he had no words: perhaps due to after-effects of the recent haze-phenomenon, the monster had been able to take him _with_ it into some incorporeal wraith-dimension for just a moment, moving away from the path taken by the other involuntary explorers.
They emerged into relatively normal space in the room where Vissarion currently was.
This was a room adjoining an _exterior_ wall. The scarfaced man had felt a draft, and so had been searching afresh for signs of an exit. He had just identified what seemed a bricked-over window with flaws in the masonry, when the monster took shape not ten feet away, Ivan held pinned on the floor by two of its tentacles.
"Now, human worm, you will--"
That was as far as the inhuman voice got. The monster didn't realize that Vissarion had already anticipated the possibility of exactly such a dilemma. Knowing that a hostage would _still_ be slain and eaten even if he did try to save that hostage by surrendering, the redbearded warrior-saint had already resolved that he would stake everything on NOT being paralyzed by his own compassion, the way the monsters would expect him to be. So while the monster was still speaking, Vissarion hurled his sword, spear-like, into its face. Losing hold of Ivan, the wounded thing tried to escape back into the ethereal state; but before it could even make its fadeout, the hero was upon it with his pickaxe.
The next thing Ivan knew was that his injured leg had been bound up, and the tall man had gently set him near the wall with the blocked window. "Can you get me back to the others?" he groaned.
"I don't know where the others are now," Vissarion replied. "But there may be people dwelling _outside_ this place, who could be persuaded to help you recover. Shield your eyes, now; fragments will be flying."
Some twenty-five or thirty pickaxe blows later, the window had been recreated, albeit with irregular edges. An actual _sky_ was visible. Vissarion poked his head outside. "Looks like a normal countryside out there, though no other buildings within view. Best news is, the drop isn't far, and there are projections I can use to climb down."
"But how will * I * get down?" asked Ivan.
"I'll help you to prop yourself up on the windowsill; when I'm on my feet below--and I promise you, we _aren't_ very high up--you just let yourself fall forward, and I'll catch you."
"I guess I have nothing to lose," grunted Ivan.
"And everything to gain," said Vissarion, making one of his marks beside the reopened window before descending.
All went as the bearded warrior intended. Ivan was surprised at how mild was the shock of landing in the big man's grasp. Soon the jaded cynic was riding papoose fashion on the back of the resolute warrior, as they went searching for any sign of human habitation.
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OOC: Lady-of-Narnia, my former offer stands, as modified by these events: you could at some time take over control of the character of Vissarion. Span-Inq might be returning eventually as Ivan, in which case you might choose to say that Vissarion still is with him, if this suits you. I have other fish to fry--including, of course, my "Flying Girl" story.
