The sound of the creature hitting the floor is very loud in the silence only broken up by panting, and Abby seething, hissing out a breath of her own through clenched teeth. She passes off her mace again, and flexes her hand, splaying fingers, squeezing them into a fist. "Shit."

It's fine, but it aches.

"You good?"

Richard looks- not great. Abby's professional assessment. He's unsteady on his feet down the other side of the corridor, paper-pale. He reaches up, fingers curling around the fang-tip as if to tug; Abby says, "Leave it!" far too late.

Out it comes, in a wash of blood. She strides toward him, gesturing at her collarbone and throat to indicate where the wound is on him, instructing, "Get some pressure on that. With your hand, push down- bunch your shirt up underneath."