The second the sound of a discharged gun sounded, the Marksman, acting on years of training, aimed and shot at his target, before attempting to dodge. He moved, but not fast enough. Three rounds tore into his chest, easily puncturing the low-grade armor they'd been given. Armor that was crafted to block swords and arrows rather than bullets.<br/>He felt the blood rising in his throat.<span style="font-style: italic">Ah, both lungs are gone, and...</span>He collapsed quietly, using the last of his strength to put a capsule into his mouth, bite down, and - painfully - swallow one last time. His eyes glazed as the drug took affect, and he wished all the best for his companion.<br/><span style="font-style: italic">May you run faster than Cygnet, the God of the Charge, LanceMan of Legend, Calvalry, you have seconds to live.<br/><br/>The shots, echoed by the Marksman's own discharge, were all the Calvalry needed to hear before he ran as fast as he could, pushing forward, not caring about damage. The mechanical beast's attack almost ruined everything, but the Calvalry had taken his own capsule the second he heard the sound of a Round 3 shot. Pain was nothing now. <br/>He watched as one of his arms floated away, followed by the distant, ticklish cracking of his ribs. He kept running though, but some miracle keeping his balance sans and arm, and with a sticky metal sphere planted between his shoulder blades.<br/>Round 3 was the pride of the Slayer. They found it oddly romantic to be forced to use this, and as they rarely used it - it WAS a last resort weapon, something of Myth - Round 3 was something every Marksman prided himself to carry. <br/>[i]Hiss</span><br/>The Calvalry swung his Lance, using all his strength to move those in front of him as the bullet - one couldn't call it that, it was almost the size of one's fist, it<span style="font-style: italic">ruined</span>the barrel of any gun firing it - released a small yellow cloud of dust.<br/>The Slayer's steps were faltering now. When had his leg snapped so easily? Oh well, pain was nothing, it was a sound, a smell that was unpleasant, but so faded it could be part of one's imagination.<br/>He fell at last, just in time to hear Round 3's death rattle. This was the rattle of nails. Then, the hiss again. This was the deployment of the Slayer's version of gunpowder. Something both useful to ignite and throw at enemies raw. Then...<br/>He died before he heard the<span style="font-style: italic">click</span>, eyes glazed, and body crumpled beneath the torn ligaments and muscle, shattered bone and rendered flesh, and the resulting explosion burned his body to ash before his heart stopped beating.<br/>(( Nail bombs, I love them. Anyway, your people don't have to be horribly maimed. I'm imagining an angry beehive after one throws rocks at it. ))<br/><br/>-----------------------------------------<br/>Nash glanced over to the Knights, listening to all they had to say before responding in his own, scattered manner. "I can fix his arm, but if he faints from<span style="font-style: italic">this</span>he may not be suited for King of...whatever country he was from. I don't believe I had explored it yet." He prodded the man's arm like a child, and rose to stare at the Knights. "Your technology is more advanced than I'd given this entire continent's worth...I apologize. What form of armor is this? How is it crafted?"<br/>One leader made an angry noise and Nash fell silent, "Oh yes, again, not here for cultural work am I? I'm a diplomat now..." He took off his cloak, revealing a rich, red and white embroidered vest, bought within the Native's land, but nevertheless an article he enjoyed wearing. Nothing in the Mother Land was so...quaint.<br/>Nash gave a small bow to the Knights, and sat back down, still leaning back in his chair. "I regret that I could not travel to your country and appreciate it's mannerisms before 'she' succeeds to the Slayer." He started tracing his scars again, and looked about, finally interested in what was going on.