She's limp and pathetic as she's pulled, the motion jostling the blade in her abdomen--held more tightly by bands of flesh, new tendrils of muscle and skin wending their way up towards the tip--and sending another rippling wave of pain through her. Harrow manages a gurgling groan, the voice sending another jolt of pain along her temporal bone, hot and searing but enough to make her retch. It's not compliance, or not entirely, but it gets the job done; she vomits blood and a little bit of bile, a hideous mixture that spatters the ground and the already-soiled cloth of her robes and the shirt beneath.

"How," she says, and there's a myriad of questions behind the word.