[center][h3][url=https://dicecloud.com/character/DDB5L52REuqZRqLkM/M-the-Silent][color=6C3082]"M" the silent[/color][/url][/h3][/center]
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A glint.
A cutting of air.
Nothing more nothing less.
Spotted from the corner of the eye.
Heard on the wind as it came.
But all too late.

He was right. His perception and deduction sharp, but his reaction slow at the draw. Agility and deftness was never quite his forte, did one really expect every street rat to be capable of leaping from rooftop to rooftop, parkouring all across the city like some would be assassin? No, the psion took refuge in the mind, in the Noosphere where his psyche leapt from one subject to another, gathering the knowledge of the ages. The memories of the world brain, a sphere of consciousness travelled by those who walk a higher realm. But what good is knowing it is a trap when just as he predicted, the simpleton amongst them ran in with an axe to cleave the head of a horse? Hacking, endless cleaving the sounds of the bait being taken and all that butchered meat wasted. It was a shame, but as the half-orc emerged a full mess of visera and gore, asking the genasi if he wanted any part of the spoils, the glint of an unnatural wasp stung the half-orc.

Yet there was no time to smirk in the superiority of his own intellect accurately predicting this result. For in the matter of moments the goblins pressed the assault, everything exploding into action as darts flew into the air. Maybe there would be an assassination yet, the genasi had dropped down to take cover, lying low from the shots blown. Their warrior having snuck over by the woodland stride, the cleric taking the other path as they crossed. Good, it was all positioned proper as he thought, taking the high vantage atop the cart, and yet what boon was given was also taken. As the psion realized the goblins had not been above killing the animals in tow, thus if they spooked or slew their beasts of burden, then this wagon would never reach their destination in time. Thus rein in hand he started to pull the lumbering beasts to turn, hopefully putting a distance between their living animals and the raiders.

Do you what sound a man makes,
When an arrow punctures his flesh?
When a shaft digs into his ribs?
When a point piercings his lungs?

There was no pain at first. No feeling to it. Just a expiratory gasp, a subtle sigh. It was not some great cry of agony, no dramatic point of death, but a subtle exhale on the parting breath. This was the sound a man. It was the air leaving the lungs as they collapsed, forced out the change in pressure. Like a popped balloon, or more so one crushed by the forces at play, the lobes wilted away. Blood and air from the outside tunneling through the wound, filling the void of space. It was this soft forsaken cry which trumpeted the arrival of pain. 

Then came the body's response. The heave, the wheeze, the breathlessness, as the sudden shock alerted the all slow brain to realize what had happened. The flank branded hot from the arrow half-embedded into the chest, from the sticking up and sliding between the ribs at just the right angle to make its way into the airy organ. The immediate action that followed would be the wince, tension and pressure applied to the flesh wound, wooden haft between the fingers to stabilize and reduce the bleeding. And though the brain itself was wracked with screams from nerve fibers on fire, the mind was focus on finding who it was that fired the shot. The direction and angle of entry, the ear and eyes tuning to the balance and sight of the poor unfortunate soul that had so foolishly attacked him.

And though it seemed the sudden disappearance of the flute-playing bard made a scantily-clad rogue appear from the scholar's dark carriage, to which certainly was not the scholar they had been travelling with unless those horns were for more than just impressing the ladies. Of such a question raises why the bard, who was perhaps nauseatingly pleasing to the eyes of men who were intoxicated by the company of such women, ducked inside the carriage to summon her possible protector? A mystery to be considered at another time, as first there was a lesson to be learned. And whatever spell was cast by the tiefling at the offending creature seemed to agonize and antagonize it some, burning away at the candle of rage as it Seethed with emotions at whatever was being shouted at it in some language uncaught by the psion under the distraction of an arrow embedded in one's chest.

His vision turned to the right, of where the roguish warrior had slunk off to, spotting the poorly hidden attacker, and then another engaging the girl. There must be more, there were more, as those deep chocolate eyes had spotted two in plain sight moments earlier and he had expected some movements flanking from the woods to their right. But now those eyes still widen in pain and shock surged with more than adrenaline but terrifying insight. Those abyssal pupils bore locked into that hideous cretin's eyes, staring deep into its sockets, boring a hole through with mere vision alone perhaps! But no, more horrific than daggers for deathstares were the connections being made, entangled waves of psionic energy like invisible tentacles lashing from the psion's head. If eyes could see what the mind has thought of, if words alone could adequate describe the terror that the lone goblin would experience as the target of its arrow became a thing that should not be!

And it was all in the mind of that sole goblin. However clever, or however dumb the creature was, the psion's vengeance was repaid in kind. As within a blink of its terrified eye, its body froze and jaw dropped, eyes rolled back and a earsplitting shriek became its last words. It was done, but not over, no for this very insult and injury, the goblin would not die a peaceful death. He recounted every sin against him, and gave the poor thing its due as the waves of psionic energy intensified, piercing its way through the softened mush the remains of the shattered psyche. And then in a gloriously gory finale, the goblin's head burst in a shower of skull and brains, eyeballs flying out as blood sprayed from the stump of its bleeding neck.

Retribution done, the psion slid down the wagon's seat slumped against the cover of against attacks from the northern flank. A tactical move hopefully though spotting the injuries of their warrior himself, he could turn his attention to that goblin later if it dared to face him after seeing what a bloody mess he made of its ally. And from the looks of it, perhaps what Kiki herself had done to its other friend. Resting his powerful head back against the wagon, grounded body leaning on the wood for his support, the arrow still embedded in his thorax confirmed these were the killers of those horses. And if their Lordsman was right, they have also killed this party's employer and his work contact. Best interrogate one of the goblins to find out, though a psychic interrogation may reveal his powers, if not the fantastically visceral display that may have matched the half-orc's wanton axing. Hopefully the others were finding themselves in better luck.

Still though... This punctured lung meant he would be a bit short on breath, alive but certainly every breath was like breathing fire.
[i]I need healing.[/i]

[hider= Mechanics]
1) Action: Mind Thrust I6 goblin, Int vs 13 = 1d20 + 0 = (1) + 0 = Failed save. Damage = 1d10 + 2 = (9) + 2 = 11. Fatality.
2) Move: D7(ish) to E6, dismounting wagon and taking possible partial cover (half cover)?
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