The bar, Lazar's disbanded finger, a streak of whatever fluid has elected to result from the wound: all flung aside to experience the pit's full depth in silent descent. An almost relaxed cadence to the long arm's re-engagement, its grace imposed upon by the awkward angle as Lazar moves much more intentionally, and much closer, than expected.

They go slanting aside together, askew but still upright. Moss comes away slick under the scrape of one distended foot, sticking to the toes. The great staff goes clattering. Both long hands come in, grasping, prying, while a very human sound rasps through the throat in layers of gasp and growl.

Ugh, it sounds like, and gross, if not in so many words.