Treyman had made an attempt to dive into cover though it came as little more than a rushed scurry just before his shielding broke. He needed a plan, so he would need to use a special... Gift, lets say in order to escape and keep the civilian safe. "Vun... Drin Mal!" The words weren't of an English tongue nor the other languages of the worlds that man inhabits, instead it was a phrase crafted by the Damned General himself to cause a spell of sorts. A purplish wave of fog escaped his lips like a breath in the winter air, and it moved to his hand where it hovered as a ball of violet plasma. A magic grenade, which he tossed over the cover he leaned against, as it didn't burn metals but instead just flesh and cloth.