[center][h2][b]Ilshar Ard’sabekh[/b][/h2][/center]

Two hundred steps away left, one hundred, fifty. Ilshar only dimly kept track of the staggered blasts coming from behind him, only parsing the comm chatter as deeply as he needed to be sure that nothing was aiming at him. His eyes closed and reformed at a quickened rate on all sides, tracking the fire that streaked down from the sky and the moment it would strike the ground, his foot ready to bear the quakes that followed it without missing its stride. Now that the aircraft’s guns were turned against the squad, even delaying slightly in the open would have been too much. If he knew anything about League vehicles, it was that they had enough sensors to catch an emission-dead commando at night, never mind a clear hostile between a few battered tents.

Arms of the Spiral, he had made it. He let his momentum carry him through the entrance flaps even as he took in the unmistakable shape sitting prominently among its contents. That damnable egg-spitter, may the Abyss devour it. Ilshar knew the likes of it well enough, more even than he would have liked it. He’d seen them time and again in the hands of dead Leaguers and their sponsored militias - easy to learn, easy to use, after all - more often than not after firefights erupted near crash sites. Occasionally he had been among those sifting through the wreckage of an improvised transport to see if any of the crew’s spore-sacs had survived. Grim work. It was eerie to see bodies lose their shape like that. But it had certainly taught him that this was the right weapon for such a moment.

[i]whirr-[/i]

His inner eye briefly turned to the past, Ilshar’s rear-facing sensory organs barely caught the movement behind him in time. The machine was at least smart enough not to shoot among a munitions store, though this was of little consolation as he lurched into a crate in a desperate bid to avoid the automaton’s strike. A wet grunt escaped through his teeth as the bludgeon clipped him across the back, staggering him to the side. A little closer, and a piece of him would have been as liquefied as a crash victim.

Snarling, Ilshar turned on his foot, letting the strike’s push carry him along with his own strength, and reached for his own gun. The sharpened edges on his armour’s vambraces were useful weapons in close combat with an organic enemy, but they would do little to an automaton’s plated skin. Something bigger was needed. He brought up the Ulvath’s stock in a sideways swing at the machine’s head; it was sturdy enough to breach doors, and would survive putting a dent into metal. A moment later, he was reflexively following it up with a blow from his armoured forearm. It was unlikely to bring down the automaton for good, but all he needed was to damage its sensors enough to put it out of commission for the moment. The gunship outside remained the greater threat even with this more immediate one now showing itself; he couldn’t afford to get caught in a protracted fight with an untiring opponent right now.