Capitano was untouchable.

In the five long centuries he's endured survival, he could count his losses on one hand; it was with good reason that he was so renowned, so feared.

Capitano, in truth, still was only human.

Humans are the farthest from the Gods, beings of flesh and feeling and an everlasting drive for more. Humans can ache, they can falter, they can bleed. And while blood is a familiar sight to a man who's life was spent at war, the blood covering his hands, pooling from the wound on his abomen, was unfamiliar. Wrong.

It happened in mere seconds; the sounds of his troupe fighting behind him, the chaos of battle, the roar of an abyssal vishap and then the searing pain that shot through his chest, dragging from collar to core. With the breath knocked out of his lungs and a sensation he can't put a name to spreading like wildfire throughout his body, Capitano falters — human will is often triumphed by the body's own limits, and he is no exception no matter how hard he fights to breathe through it and move.

There's a dull thud, nearly inaudible amidst the sound of battle, as Capitano wavers and drops to the ground.