"Fuck," says Ellis, more resigned then apprehensive.

There's something birdlike enough about this creature to be unsettling on a more personal level. Hunched, avian, horrific. It's familiar territory. But in the immediate sense, it's likely about to try to kill one of them.

The ear-rending screech it gives when that crossbow bolt strikes home twists into Ellis' head, rings in his ears, amplifying and echoing well-remembered sounds. He drops his mace, braces his feet and brings his palms together with a crack, following the crossbow bolt with a streak of radiant white light.

"Fire again. Before it fades," Ellis tells her, though Fitcher knows her business, won't need the instruction. He's painting a target for her, caution thrown to the wind as their quarry screams in rage, unfurling to it's full, inconveniently massive size. It's seen them.

At this point, Ellis' priorities are narrowing from "possibly take it alive" to "leave enough of a corpse to bring back samples."