He wishes it were the first time he'd been "shot". It's not. Hunters weren't all friendly. Most weren't, in fact. Unfortunately that didn't make this much easier.

It's dizzying, feeling his soul ripping up, feeling the remains of his body move, then strugle to reform, only to be stabbed through with sticks and stones just as his consciousness settles back in place. He always thought it was strange, being able to bleed when just a push of his magic could whisk his whole body away, but bleed he does, that slower flow of something post mortem. He looks down at his limply dangling body with a strange sort of detachment. There are scratches galore, holes in him left by stones, like the gnarly bullet wounds of a gun. A few smaller twigs have stabbed in and stuck there, the biggest one being a smaller branch through his middle. He grips it curiously and despite the pain and dizziness he hears himself laugh, quiet and cut through with coughs.

"That's ironic... You can actually die from all this...can't you? Ss...some m-monster..."

But his laughter quickly dies as he sees who's there now, before them. He looks stricken for a moment. Then, weakly and stupidly, still held by the monster, he waves a hand and puts on a grimace of a smile. "I-Imelda...! You look g-good... Hola, Peter... Pepita..."