“I can sometimes tell certain ones apart, but the rest all meld together.”

His blood dries into an obsidian black and some relief is finally known now that the last fragment is removed, leaving the demihuman rattled and winded.

How he hates guns and those who wield them.

Yellow, inhuman ichor spills and coats the removed shrapnel shards, the wound itself looking more like shattered pottery than broken skin.

“May my fist’s deeds echo, not those of my name.”

“Ah, hm. That is what a man…also likes to hear.” The phrase practically tumbled out, alien and barely understood by the voice speaking it.

“Have you had your own taste of vengeance since last we spoke?”

“……Arson?”

“Not yet. Too many other things to burn first.”