A scrape of rocks. A rasp of stone on clothing. It's his only warning, and Connor's barely registered the danger when it hits him from behind. Force slams into his back, driving him down onto the snow (shoes, some part of him flags rapidly, not claws or talons). Breath vacates his chest cavity in a sharp rush, frame twisting to escape the weight of his attacker—

—when a sharp crack of agony slams into—through— his shoulder. Biocomponent #9782f: critical damage. His expression contorts, and he locks his vocalizer before it can cry out. Jerks sideways, good elbow smashing back to displace the form on top of him.

Humanoid assailant. Ambush. Who, and why, are much less urgent than providing an immediate counter. Connor scrambles to put his back against the rocks, snatching for the knife he'd stashed inside his jacket.