Just that single encounter alone left her hands shaking, feeling her own fingers trembling around the handle of her dagger. The battlefield was as real as anything else; the smoke that filled her lungs, the burnt smell of gunpowder and the sweet scent of magical traces.
She stayed low, attempting to observe her surroundings through the heavy veil of smoke; the constant gunfire and blasts of magic were difficult to trace, but she began to get an idea of where to go next.
"That was my friend, you bitch."
The feminine, rough voice came from behind her just as she attempted to strand straight, instead finding the sensation of something rigid pressed against the back of her head.
'--Behind me? When? I didn't hear anybody come up,' she questioned to herself in a panic.
"Die," the gun-wielding player coldly commanded.
CLICK.
Without any mercy, a trigger was pulled as a magical bullet released directly against the thief's head.
