The answering volley is just as aimless; they are trading on the narrow layout, the close quarters, the inevitability of hitting something simply out of lack of places to aim. A bolt catches John's hip, progress blunted by the thick leather of his belt. If he were inclined, he might be able to tear it out.
He leaves it. The fresh burn of pain is of better use to him than anything else.
"For fuck's sake—"
Has nothing to do with Flint's aim, and everything to do with the interminable luck of this man, still standing, still armed, still groaning in Antivan despite their efforts. Crows. Yseult had warned them.
Sweat is prickling along his skin. (Whether from the exertion or the pain or both, John has not tried to determine.) Fresh blood is running, blotching beneath his belt and the gathered fabric of his tunic. John reaches out, and pulls, dragging this assassin forward out of sheer frustration, for lack of anything else to hurl down the length of the store at him.
no subject
He leaves it. The fresh burn of pain is of better use to him than anything else.
"For fuck's sake—"
Has nothing to do with Flint's aim, and everything to do with the interminable luck of this man, still standing, still armed, still groaning in Antivan despite their efforts. Crows. Yseult had warned them.
Sweat is prickling along his skin. (Whether from the exertion or the pain or both, John has not tried to determine.) Fresh blood is running, blotching beneath his belt and the gathered fabric of his tunic. John reaches out, and pulls, dragging this assassin forward out of sheer frustration, for lack of anything else to hurl down the length of the store at him.