"...Nifty trick, that." Magic. Weird ass magic. Mal shakes off the feel'n of creepy crawlies (black eyes, for fuck's sake, that just ain't right) and sprints for the impaled Rage Demon. One day he'll scratch enough coin together to get a proper frost rune on something but for now? Shortsword past the shoulder, cleaving through like cutting custard. Easy with the thing pinned.

Smells like rotten eggs and bile and it's gonna get all over his hands. It takes a (smouldering) boot to the base to haul out his spear and skitter back to find space enough for the next damn demon-

But it's normal.

Ish.

More normal than black eyes.