rolled 3, 3, 4 = 10
This has been one hell of a day. If you go on like this, you'll sweep the whole western line in a week.
"This fist of mine burns with an awesome power, its LOUD ROAR tells me to defeat you!"
One down, four to go. The figure approaching you fires some sort of beam, which splashes harmlessly against a shield of ice as you dodge to the side, pumping one of the others full of ice bullets. As he slumps down next to his abdomen-less comrade, the remaining three advance on you, rapidly closing the distance as the ash is swept away.
They're human. Nothing more. You remind them of that fact.
You swing your flail, almost catching one in the leg, but the bastards manage to avoid your attack. Eyes flash. Acid splashes against your steel shield, eating through it as you discard it, whirling your spiked weapon around, clearing a perimeter. Choking on the ash left in your lungs, you yell for your companions to ready a counterattack. Hopefully they get the message.
Another goes down with shrapnel in his legs, the ice spreading from the wound, creeping up his body as he scrambles to get away, screaming. Chunks of hail as big as your head fall from the sky, smashing down in front of you while you back away, swinging your gauntlet around.
The second figure takes a comet to the shoulder, splitting open in a spray of blood. He falls. You target the last man standing.
He shouts, pulling a dagger from his cloak, “You can't be real!”
“Oh,” you close the distance, stabbing him in the throat with a shard of ice, “But I can.” The dagger scrapes harmlessly across your armor as his blood coats your front.