In her left hand she holds her second javelin. In her right she holds a book. Lancer's emerald rimmed glasses glint as she shakes an escaped tress of brown hair out of her eyes. All of her attention is on the book as she hefts, and throws. Another weak and halfhearted throw, as idle as the first. It is almost a relief. After the barrage of Bohemond, the assault of the Handmaidens and the ferocity of Berserker it is pleasant to be fighting someone who is clearly your inferior. Whoever Lancer was in life, she was no legendary hero. The skill on display here slew no dragons. Her hand freed, she brushes the escaped hair behind her ear. It does not fit into her elaborate braids but it is enough for her to take another sip of wine, conjure another javelin and with her eyes never leaving her book for a second, she takes another throw. It has the force of her Class container behind it, more than mortal strength, but nothing from her own legend adds to this. Time enough to gain position, to gain every advantage, to bring this play battle to a close against this unserious competitor before - - her emerald eyes flick up from her book. It tumbles from her emerald-painted nails towards the ground. Her leg sweeps out to the left, sweeping out her dress into a flowing cascade, bringing her down into a crouch. Her left eye winks shut. It helps her focus through the sights. Her next javelin is a FGM-148. Missiles streak up into the sky, pivoting on a dime and raining down a cascade of anti-armour shaped charges. Explosions and fire fall like rain. "Did you know?" said Lancer, silhouetted by fire as she picked her book up, snapped the page back open, and hefted her rocket launcher over her shoulder. "that these weapons were so effective at destroying the atheist Soviet Union that the Church worshipped them as saints?" Lancer's eye flicked up from her book to look through the sight again, and she thumbed the trigger from top fire to direct fire. "Once again, they ascribe religious meaning to a perfectly serviceable spear."