The torrent of bullets and one crossbow bolts thudded into the servitor's flesh, or off the walls, but the construct didn't seem to mind. Its shotgun tracked around the room as its targetting protocols tried to calculate the greatest threat, then Gabe charged in. His sword found a gab in the servitor's armour plating slicing through flesh and drawing a gout of lubricants and other less pleasant fluids.

In response, the servitor slammed a fist into the priest's midsection. It was strong, and Gabe stumbled back, coughing. When he looked up, he found himself staring down the barrel of the shotgun. The weapon roared, its report nearly deafening in the small space, but something seemed to be off with the servitor's targetting. It had fired up and to the left, the spray of metal pellets flying over Gabe's head.