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[color=red]"Yes, we are Wardens. And if you [i][b]cooperate[/b][/i] with us, you will not be harmed."[/color] Morden spoke in a tone that implied [i]he[/i] wouldn't harm the princess. After all, he could not speak for Kali, and certainly not Silje. He was entirely unmoved in his seat next to the comparatively diminutive Vangar royal, as if he were affixed to the truck they were all thrashed about in. The resident tank of Barghest had a face etched in thunderous serenity, the eye of a raging storm that thought of the next move. Like a storm cloud blacker than obsidian, the flash of lightning could come at any moment. And yet, it did not.

One could easily come to the conclusion that there was only muscle in the thick skull of his, that he was just a bruiser. A junkyard dog that did little more than what its master told it to do. It was not a difficult assumption to make, he was a Vanguard. There was war in his blood, and he was a wall in human shape. What more did he need than to be a meat shield? But that assumption was dead wrong. Morden was a warrior, but any society that separated warrior from thinker produced soldiers without the ability to [i]think.[/i] And thus, Morden elected to use a different strength. He held out both hands in front of himself, and let his mist pocket open wide. In one hand, he produced a small black container. In the other, he produced a semi-automatic shotgun. A firearm as old as modern combat itself. 

From the container, Morden withdrew a handful of shells, loaded with hardened sabots; razor sharp, metal darts launched by propellants to sink deep into armor that blunt force couldn't handle. They were often ineffective against power armor unless aimed in ways a sniper rifle was often used for, but these machines had something to protect in their heads. Something that left only so much room for protective plating. He loaded the shells with ritualistic composure. Red lightning flickered between his fingers, caressing the galvanized steel of his weapon like an ominous christening of a vessel.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

And eight.

His last shell was dropped directly into the chamber. Safety off.

[color=red]"Continue straight ahead, ignore the ones we cross. I have them"[/color] With that, Morden opened the nearest window and hauled himself out until the upper half of his body was fully hanging out the side. He aimed for robots crawling out of debris, and aimed for their "Weakpoints" as best he could, going off of his understanding of human anatomy; Their equivalents to throats, eyes, and anything else that would, at the very least, slow them down if they tried to take a swing at the truck while they fled.

Barghest's retreat was punctuated by the occasional [i]BANG[/i] of Morden's shotgun discharging its ammunition.