The feral rankle to Dickerson’s crouch eases at the passing of Vanya’s shadow; there are other mages for the former Templars among them to cut down. He splays open the hand he has across Ellis’ side and seems to recall himself in so doing, soon back to the task of cutting and wrestling armor up off to the side, over Ellis’ loose arms and lolling head -- with help, without it, whatever, however. Like twisting the hide off a dead snake.

“Both arms,” he tells Abby, curt on a delay. It’s taken him a moment to process the offer. He also says, “please,” once he’s worked his way through the Warden’s gear to a bare stretch of his belly.

He can make do with one arm, she’ll find, if she refuses -- he’ll aim to slice up behind her elbow or across the forearm, where the marks can be easily stitched and won’t interfere with further fighting.

“Cover the wound at his throat, apply pressure.”

There’s space enough for him to slip a knife up under the gap in Ellis’ armor once he’s opened up the back of his own wrist with it. There are the ribs, there is the sternum. He is not especially gentle in levering an incision up into the diaphragm beneath.

Does this feel right?

He closes his eyes, and the blood spilled between them pulses alight, unnatural heat at odds with the clammy cold of Ellis’ skin.

“If you report this to anyone we might be imprisoned.”

He’s not speaking to Ellis.