The once worn weapons dropped, they laid upon the rivers of blood that circulated atop the floor.
The hunters held their ears, their nose, their eyes.
They saw not, they breathed not, and they heard still.
Now, that was all they had, the ability to hear, to hear the sound of agony and pain.
The Porter that laid back laid sprawled across the floor, chocking on his own blood, bloody tears rushed down his cheeks at an angle abstract, his last meal, now his final.
Dues alike the those around him held his ears, nose, eyes all of such with a tight grasp.
He wedged his eyes open, he saw murky images of figures, figures he once saw in full, saw beyond the peels of their skin and the confines of their person, now just a black spot upon a red backdrop.
His body twisted in pain yet his feet began to move, his legs, and him.