Marksmen are offensive sharpshooters trained to thin enemy ranks with ruthless efficiency. They combine swift hit-and-run attacks with devastating volleys, endlessly harassing targets, sowing the battlefield with dead and crippled foes.
Marksmen are experts at hit-and-run tactics, surgically dismantling targets from a safe distance, then sprinting away before the enraged victims can close for melee.
The Marksman keeps foes at bay for a reason. The key to defeating a Marksman is reducing their mobility, exposing them to devastating melee counterattacks.
The Storm Legion captain strode before the assembled villagers, who stood unmoving in a line. “In joining the Storm Queen’s army,” he called out, “you have joined with Crucia herself. You will follow no will but the Dragon’s until the day you die. Now, it is time to cut ties.”
He gestured, and his soldiers distributed shovels among the villagers. With empty eyes, they approached the corpses littering the village streets, bodies of friends and family who had not submitted soon enough.
Just over a rise, the sole survivor of the slaughter of Whitefall huddled behind a rock. Though her fingers shook with the cold, she guided the bullets into the barrel of her gun.
One of the digging villagers fell, too weak to work, though he struggled to rise with the mindless determination of an ant with a broken back.
“You,” said the captain to another villager. “Crucia spares no love for weaklings. Bury him with the others.”
The helpless executioner stepped forward, raising his shovel. Before the stroke fell, someone blasted the shovel from his hand.
“Marksman!” the captain barked in warning.
The soldiers rushed up the rise. A slender young woman in naught but a nightgown stepped from behind a rock, rifle against her shoulder, eyes frosted over with hate. An arc of lightning propelled her first bullet to spear through the foremost soldier and lodge in the second. The second round followed right at its tail, hitting a third soldier with such thundering force that he sailed back fifteen yards.
One legionary surged forward, but before he could swing his sword, she leveled the muzzle at his chest, blasting him across the snow. By now the bulk of the group had caught up, but she leapt backwards further than human legs should have carried her, landing twenty yards away and resuming fire. Her target crumbled, and the force of her shot bowled his companions over.
An edge entered the captain’s voice as he urged his forces on. The Legion mages strove to get within range of the shooter, but her gun’s incredible reach kept them at bay. One sorcerer finally reached striking distance, stunning the girl with a concussive bolt. For but a moment, she wobbled on her feet, then shook it off like a mild headache, and ran with unnatural speed through the snow. She picked off the mage with a blast over her shoulder, then turned her rifle on the captain.
Scrambling back in terror, the captain called the mindless villagers to screen him, but the girl found him amidst the crowd.
“This is for Whitefall,” said the girl, and though her voice and face were calm, none would have mistaken her cold fury for the void of Crucia’s puppets.
Tales say you can still hear the shot that killed the captain ring out on cold nights in Whitefall. The rest of the battalion fled from the unerring sniper. Nothing could be done for the villagers, so the Marksman Gisa Malik buried her people in the frigid earth, and stole away into Iron Pine to become a legend of the Age of Dragons.