"Ethan, you okay?" Skinny Pete hurried over to him.
"I'm fine." Ethan shook his head, then nodded toward the fallen bird. "Go check on that guy."
Ethan had been careful. He'd only landed two hits with the poleaxe, and after that he didn't dare swing again—he didn't want to accidentally kill it.
And with Henry not here, if the injuries were too severe and it couldn't recover, this whole trip would be a waste.
They walked up to the peregrine falcon. It was sprawled on the ground, completely motionless.
"…It's not dead, is it?" Skinny Pete asked quietly.
"Shouldn't be." Ethan crouched and looked it over. "I only stabbed it twice. It's not that easy to kill. It probably passed out from blood loss."
Skinny Pete frowned. "Then what now? Henry's not here, and we don't know how to treat it."
"Control it first," Ethan said. "Tier 10 mutant beasts have crazy self-healing. And I avoided the vital spots. It should be able to recover on its own."
"Alright."
