[@Normie][@Kasai Uchiha]
The young swordsman and the female warrior would find that their general vicinity would be filled with a sudden explosion that ringed throughout the dead sands of the surrounding area. A large plume of smoke would envelop a small portion of a nearby hill, with a humanoid figure within the small valley before them slowly dropping to the ground, a zombie which went limp. A loud set of coughs echoed from the envelopment of smoke, with the dead winds of Rzail blowing the warm sulfurous smoke eastward. A moderately sized figure held a long object within his hands, in this case it was known as a flintlock rifle, a powerful invention designed to hit targets from far away accurately with the usage of grooves within a metal barrel to help aid the ball in it's intended direction. It was still rather primitive, especially for the individual whom had fired it, with the individual having turned to glance about and off towards the direction of the tower-like object all the others had seen. 

The man who wielded the rifle appeared to be of a moderate size, lean of build and covered in an assortment of armor. He currently had on a thick gambeson, a helmet in the shape of a steel disc settled ontop of his head. Bits of leather clothing laced underneath the gambeson, keeping the individual warm from the cold dead air of Rzail. He had a prominent underbite, with a set of canines protruding from his lower lip, and a piglike nose making up the center of his face. Green skin made up what was exposed of his body, portraying the individual as a smaller offshoot of Orc that resided within the cosmos. He appeared to be somewhat calm, lacking any sense of nervousness or belligerence in the small realm that was home to undead. His right hand would go to settle the butt of the rifle's stock into the dead sand, his eyes darting off both between the golden figure standing amongst the hill before the corpses of the giant undead, and the youthful swordsman bolting towards the tower.  

A low sigh escaped the young Orc's mouth as he'd start the careful process of reloading the flintlock rifle, being careful of the combat knife bayonet he had attached to the end of the rifle. He made sure to stay careful as he reloaded the rifle, taking a good minute of his time before he'd go to raise it up. By some odd habit he'd lower it to the ground much like an assault rifle, him blinking his eyes as he'd heft the longer much more primitive weapon's barrel towards the sky to keep himself from driving the barrel into the dead sand. Some form of training from an old friend made him do this by habit.

He considered moving straight towards the tower, which he considered as a wise move by the young swordsman whom he watched from the hill bolt towards, although the individual on the hill also interested him somewhat. He figured the best option was to follow in the young swordsman's suit, the Orc cocking the duck of the flintlock to half-mast incase of need to fire, with him taking a brief step forward. His thick leather boots would slam into the dead sand of a small crevice in the hill below, the aged daypack on his back following suit with a small ruffle of the many items inside. He would then start to hike towards the direction of the tower, his rifle pointed towards the sky, and his eyes darting about constantly.