The farseers body jerks in the eversor's grip, as she grows limp, pale, shocked. Staring up, her pupils dilating. She falls out of the eversor's grip, bleeding from her side, gasping. The eversor cocks his head, staring down.
His claws drip poison, nothing more. The crunch of snow behind the eversor causes its skull to whip around, following the noise.
Teetering, gun smoking, the vindicare sways unevenly staring daggers at the eversor...The eversor tenses, its hand reaching, ready to dodge-
The vindicare flees. Runs blindly into the snowdrifts.
The eversor follows. Thoughts of blood running down its arms fill its mind as it gives merry chase.
For an injured man, he manages a decent clip, for a time- for a time. Then, five serrated claws dripping with toxic fire for blood spear him. He gasps, he would scream, were his diaphragm not pierced. The force of the charge take the eversor and the vindicare down the hill, through the snow, bloody trails and gunfire the whole way down.
They hit the bottom, the vindicare impaled, pinned to the ground. The eversor knows peace. Then registers, for the briefest of moments, pain, as it glances to the searing bullet hole in its chest.
The vindicare is in incredible pain, entirely insensate by the time he hit the bottom of the hill, but all of his satisfaction was felt when he passed the 23 meter mark, just far enough from the farseer that the explosion won't reach her.
Fire, thunder, and bloody spray end the lives of the assassins.