It was time for the harvest. The Weeper did relish it so when the unfortunates came to him.

Twenty feet separated the two as the masked swordsman had finished shooting and made his approach. Twenty feet was a pittance of distance to the Weeper, his stride was not so great, but he moved with an unnatural speed that belied that of a predatory cat. His measure was not so impressive with a short-sword in hand, but he would be upon her as she landed, darting leftward on his left foot with his left arm covering his body and face. He naturally stooped as he sent the Weeping blade plunging forward hungrily for her flesh just as her feet touched the ground. An ideal time to strike, in truth, for her options for evasion were terribly limited by her own airborne manoeuvre. She could even be carried into the point of his sword by her own momentum, which struck for her right shoulder. 

He had expected some other form of long range assault from the girl, she had shown an aptitude for it already. However in truth had he not been upon her his options would have been limited for dealing with the coins. Fortunately, his blade would serve in that regard. She could not easily commit to throwing those objects at him if she wished to avoid feeling the blade of misery cut a neat path through her shoulder. If the point of his blade did not serve as sufficient obstacle to the launching of the coins, he would taste pain himself. Perhaps enough to stop him onslaught for the time being.