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... ains, carrying with it the stench of blood and the chilling cries of battle. The Threian Marksmen, their faces grim and etched with exhaustion, scrambled higher, their retreat a desperate, ragged scramble against the relentless advance of the orcish horde.
Their lightweight armor offered little protection against the brutal onslaught; their "boomsticks," as they called their powerful, but cumbersome, rifles, the only significant weight in their meager equipment. The marksmen were skilled ...
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