The sword slides out with a wet and obscene noise, a schhhhliiick that's half covered by the thin scream Harrow emits despite herself, her jaw clenching around the noise and the pain of having several inches of metal forcibly and suddenly withdrawn from her body. It happens, and it hurts--and then stops, the wound healing and the blood flaking to powder as though neither had occurred at all, her skin pale and unblemished beneath the ripped fabric of her shirt. Her breath shudders, but steadily.