Whilst the rest he had gotten was appreciated, he once again was on a time limit. With the amount of sound they had created and the smell of blood and corruption so prominent, something would soon be on its way.
Pulling his weary body up with a sigh, he grunted at the pain which flashed through his entire body. The fact that he was alive right now was a miracle.
The skin on his stomach was torn to shreds, and bleeding profusely. His arms and sides were covered in various cuts that leaked droplets of blood too.
Holding his right arm by the elbow, he grimaced at the feeling of flesh beginning to repair itself. The abomination had done more damage than he had realised, tearing through the arm so deeply that it had mangled his flesh and left the arm hanging on through only a few threads of muscles.
It had crippled him, temporarily, but enough that his plans for reaching The Garrison would have to be changed.
Grunting with the pain, he limped to the dead hell hound. Getting onto his knees beside it, he grabbed the throwing knife embedded in its eye and with a ready sigh, wretched it free.
"Shit..." his body was weaker than even he had realised, and with the force he had used to pull the knife out, it had sent him falling back. Hitting the ground with another grunt.
Sighing from the floor, he pushed his broken body to stand again. He couldn't waste any more time than he already had.
Limping to the shop floor, he picked up the same clothes as before and took a few spare shirts with him. Without any bandages, these would have to do.
Stepping into the toilet again, and locking the door, he began the process of getting changed and wrapping his injuries.
If he had thought doing this before had been tedious, now, with only one useable arm, it was downright annoying. Grabbing one of the spare shirts he had brought, he placed it on the sink.
Cleaning his blade on its sleeve, he began to get to work.
Cutting through the front and back of the fabric, he created as many squares as he could. Though with only one useable arm, and the shirt constantly shifting with his movements, it was wearing on his patience.
Finally done and having a stack of at least six squares. He released a sigh and flipped the blade in his hand before putting the handle in his mouth.
This part would hurt.
Putting two on top of each other, and running them under the water, he prepared his shaking body. Carefully, he began to run the makeshift cloth he had created over his stomach, his teeth biting into the cold steel of his handle at the pain which flared.
Fresh wounds were always the worst to clean, especially when they ran so deeply and were numerous in amount. But it was necessary if he didn't want anything to track him.
Finally done with his stomach, he took the knife out of his mouth and took a steadying breath. Grabbing another shirt, and gripping it with his teeth, he tore through the fabric, splitting it down the middle.
Repeating the process on the back of it, he was left with a long, dark blue makeshift bandage.
With only one hand to use, he put one end of the ripped shirt on his side, before leaning against the sink and trapping it between. Rolling the makeshift bandage across his stomach and back, he tightened the two meeting ends as well as he could.
Repeating the process, he ripped another shirt and placed another bandage a little higher on his stomach. The abominations mouth had been large, and it had left wounds from his abdomen all the way to his chest.
Satisfied with the rags for now, he moved onto his arms. Taking only one of the squares, he repeated his actions from before, cleaning them before ripping a shirt and layering a bandage over it.
He did it another four times throughout his body before he was finally done. Looking at the mirror, he couldn't help but find some amusement in his appearance. With dark circles under his eyes, and a new scar on his chin, he looked like a miniture mummy covered in different coloured cloth.
Getting naked once again and dumping his old clothes to sit in the pile of his even older clothes, he changed again. Though with his body continuously shaking from both the pain and the invading cold it proved to be a challenge.
Because of course it did.
He was really starting to hate today.
Sighing when he finally got his overcoat on, he took the final shirt he had brought with him and ripped it again. Holding it in his teeth, he used his left hand to push his right arm to sit across his chest.
Leaning his body back, so that his arm wouldn't fall. He spat the shirt out, and using his left hand created a sling for his arm to sit in comfortably.
Finally done, he hid the throwing knife in his left sleeve with a flick of his wrist and grabbed his longsword which had been sitting against the wall next to him.
Unlocking the door and pushing it open with his foot, he kept his blade up, ignoring the foul smell pervading through the room.
Keeping an ear out for anything, he limped towards the hell hound. In an ideal world he would have already left, but with him down an arm and only capable of properly wielding his throwing knife, he needed more choices.
Getting on his knee next to the abomination, he laid his longsword next to him and slid the knife into his hand.
This next part would be messy, but necessary if he wanted to increase his chances of survival.
Moving carefully to not get any blood on himself, he began to cut through the hell hounds head at the base of its two horns.
It was disgusting, how far he was willing to go, and he hated himself for doing this. But with his body crippled, his mind frazzled and his energy dwindling, he needed to use his surrounds to the best of his ability.
It was necessary he told himself.
It had to be.