"Stayed in safety and watched as that same beast tore out a man's throat?" Francis' tone is firm, even a touch sarcastic, but there is a tremble to his hand as he lowers the poker by his side. He is not used to violence, nor does he quite know what to do with the shaky, dizzy feeling as the adrenaline begins to fade. There is blood on his shirt, on his hands, and something thick and viscous he doesn't want to think about too hard. "No. My body might have been spared by such caution, but my soul would surely be damned."

He follows the other man's eyes, this way and that, searching for any of the animal's companions. Once he is reassured that nothing draws too near, that no other howl splits the night, he drops the bloody poker with a clatter and moves to the other man's side, to offer some support. This close, even in the darkness, it is clear he has been affected by the fight: under the blood, his olive skin has taken on a greyish pallor, and he is trembling noticeably when he offers his arm.

"We should find somewhere to see to that wound," he says, quietly. "Do you stay nearby, sir?"