It felt like trying to cut his way through stone with a piece of wood. Each slash Letho made at the protective sphere sent monstrous vibrations down the length of the gunblade, rattling him to the bone, numbing his arms up to the shoulder. The Lawmaker itself lost much of its tawny splendor during this relentless assault, the dehlar blade chipped and cracked on so many places that it looked like the world's worst saw, its teeth jagged and uneven. And yet the Marshal persisted. His blood was boiling, his head afire, his ears buzzing with clangor his attacks sent echoing across the battlefield. He could see the two men behind the shimmering veil arguing over something, two distorted outlines which no longer calmly sat on their thrones and brought death above like gods brought rain. Perhaps it was his assault that planted a seed of disagreement between them, perhaps not. Letho didn't care. Before the day was done, he would have Max's head or he perish in an attempt to acquire it.Out of Character:
The rain kept touching the world with its cold figertips, hissing as it struck the sphere and forming an unnatural layer of mist some twenty feet from the ground. It made the air so damp that Letho felt like he was breathing in water drops and breathing out steam, but it lessened his attack not at all. And such bullheaded approach, seemingly futile at the beginning, started to pay dividends as the Marshal kept hammering at the barrier. The energy field seemed to be losing some if its vibrancy, fading into a paler shade of its original color. And then, without any kind of announcement, without any particularly flashy fireworks, it was gone and the crumbling blade of the Lawmaker struck nothing but air and raindrops.
Finally setting his foot on the smooth stone of the plateau that kept the gunslinger and the mage above the rubble, Letho leveled the barrel of his gunblade with Dirks' face with the eerie calmness of an assassin. His eyes, oddly white and with no noticeable pupils, stared down at the meddling varlet, pulsing with righteous rage. “It is time for you to feel the taste of gunfire, scoundrel,” the ragged swordsman, awash with pearly flames, uttered in a guttural tone. “I am Marshal Letho Ravenheart, and I deal in lead!” And with that, he pulled the trigger and sent Max Dirks to the eternal hunting grounds.
Well, that was the plan at least.
The reality, however, was far less theatrical and far more treacherous. There was naught but a dry click coming from the firing mechanism of his gunblade when he pulled on the trigger, nothing but the rumble of thunder spreading across the battlefield, and nothing but disappointed Oooohhhs! from the stands. Perhaps it was mud and grime that prevented the mechanism from doing its job, perhaps it was the punishment the entire weapon took from the vibrations during his fierce assault on the podium. Either way, he had lost the initiative, and judging by the look on Max's face – which went from annoyed surprise to smarmy satisfaction in moments – the gunman knew it too.
Max Dirks brought his pistol up to eliminate the threat in what most people saw as a mere blur of flesh and cloth and dark metal, but charged up as he was, Letho was faster still. He covered the distance between the two in the same amount of time some people took to form a thought, staying true to his approach so far and charging straight at the loaded barrel of the gun. There was a faint fiery flash before him, the shot a mere firecracker compared to his own but crisp and clear, just like the pain that detonated somewhere in his gut. Didn't matter. There was far too much momentum in Letho's approach, too much anger and unhinged power to be stopped by a single bullet. He struck Max like a chariot at full speed, throwing both himself and his target over the edge with the finesse of a bowling ball striking a solitary pin.
The world didn't slow down. Life didn't flash before their eyes. Their rapid descent from up above was short, their landing in the mud below unceremonious, creating a pair of splashes a couple of feet apart.
Landing face first, Letho got a mouthful of mud as his body tried to replenish his oxygen supply. His right hand still wrapped around the smooth wood of the Lawmaker, the mud-covered Marshal rolled to his left and pushed himself back to his feet, spitting out the earthy slop. The pain in his abdomen, that pulsar of fire that seemed to emit another wave of pain with each beat his heart took, seemed to be numbed down to a tolerable level for now, countered by the adrenaline pumping through his veins. His hands went to work simultaneously with his eyes, the former trying to reload the chamber of his weapon while the latter sought out his enemy. The reloading lever refused to budge when he tugged at it lightly, then snapped clear off when he applied some pressure. He spat again, this time less to clear his mouth and more out of frustration. It seemed that he would have to end Max Dirks with cold dehlar instead of hot lead.
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