After years of pack fighting, Darran takes the opening almost as smoothly as if he'd known it was coming, rushing up behind the hound and hooking the pipe over its throat, then using that to drag it and pin it to the ground. Half-blinded by fumes and tongues of flame from its open mouth, roaring in pain, he begins stabbing and slashing at it wildly. It's burning him faster than he can heal the damage, but he's not really thinking anymore, just hitting every weak spot he can think of. Eyes, throat, chest-- flinch as one flailing paw burns and tears at his chest-- eyes, throat-- wrestle it back down as it tries to maneuver itself up to a crouch-- throat, chest-- suddenly, it goes limp, and its fires begin to die out. Darran coughs and prods at its head experimentally, only to find the whole thing loose, severed from its body. He eyes what's left of the pipe-- nearly melted through, bent at a crazy angle-- and bends it in half at the weak spot to form a short, crude club. He cradles his right arm as it heals, and sets off at a stumbling run in the direction Aaron went, yelling as he goes, "HEY! THE HEAD! TAKE OFF THE HEAD!"