[It should have been a scream. There was some terrible, clear side of Ptou's consciousness that derided that pathetic sound that was ripped out of his lungs at the second impact.

The former god's face is blotchy with pain around the deathly pallor, and expression an unflattering portrait of agony. Eyes screwed shut, hands clenching convulsively on the metal arm, swallowing hard between desperate gasps of air.

It takes a while, seconds bleed into minutes before Chrysos' words seems to filter through the kaleidoscope of reds and blacks... Even then, it's just barely a nod.]