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Pox had been turning the far corner into little scorched patches of black soot and scratches, really hammering that archer with what he had.  It was actually on the last bomb that he and the archer had an exchange.  Not moving enough to notch the arrows, the last bomb would be more accurate then the others, but it was a trade off as he notched arrows, two no three at a time.

Pox was the target and thankfully no one was next to him against the wild arrows.  Missing the first was easy, that was a miss.  The next one, it was a hit but it dinged off the metal lense of his mask.  The enchantment held true and he only received a surprising clunk for his trouble and a crack over his left lens.  The next volley even as his bomb went off, one miss, but then a direct his, in the process of moving left leg was struck, the head burrowing deep.  It was enough to make Pox stumble even as the last arrow whizzed through the air and socked him into the chest, knocking the wind out of him and burrowing deep, past aprong, past leather, and burying itself deep into flesh.  Pox was knocked back by the hit but amazingly seemed to remain on his feet.  He seemed ready to fall over in an instant, leg, chest injured but yet he remained up, nearly motionless.  
[sub][color=black][i]You don't have my permission to die.  You don't get to feel pain.  You haven't earned it.  No excuses.  You stay up.[/i][/color][/sub]
Pox's twitching hand went to a oddly ornate syringe on his hip.  He plunged it into his thigh and he seemed to almost come back to life again, sinking back behind the line of battle.  He went to work on himself.  He looked at his thigh, he took the arrow, struggling, he pushed it through the meat and out the back, barely making more then a stiffled whimper as another wound opened on him.  He snapped the arrow, pulling the head through one side of his leg and the shaft through the other.  His hand glowed green as he held his leg, applying the healing magic to seal the tissue damage.  

The chest was a trickier injury, he felt the wound and knew his lung was punctured.  It wouldn't be able to inflate properly.  He went to his pouch and applied tincture after drug after potion, at one point he just stuck a syringe into his chest next to the arrow and topped the plunge. an unsettling hiss escaped from it as he released the pressure in his lung.  He worked fast, but he wasn't finished, but he focused on the battle, surveying if the others were also injured.

He said coughing, sputtering up blood in his mask as he put a hand up [color=green]"Blla-hackk- I'm oookay..."[/color] before holding his chest.  He was still standing thanks to his drugs, it only hurt when he breathed.  [color=green]"Just need someone to rip this out..."[/color]

He had to deal with it.  Pulling the arrow on his own out was agonizing and would open the hole worse.  He couldn't just push this one out his back.  He'd need some time to perform the proper surgeries so a healing spell would have to be enough for now, but he needed this silly arrow out of his chest to mend the flesh.  Maybe that big fellow could rip the arrow out of him, in the meantime, he still had another lung.  Thank goodness for spares...