Quoted By:
You stand at a center, ready to spring, the horrible thing bearing down on you. Scarlet antlers protruding wickedly from <span class="mu-s">its</span> horrible crown. You do not seem to notice the world as is, the creature, the decision, the angle of the spring, the flecks of dirt torn up by churning hooves. All are smashed down into a moment of time so paltry, an experience so minute, that it happens to another man in another place. You watch the antlers run up from the ground. You watch yourself clear them, up and over and to the side. Just in time. The antlers stick in the roots of an old pine, but the creature strains <span class="mu-s">its</span> neck and half uproots the thing, scattering a rain of dirt clumps and needles all around the grove.
As <span class="mu-s">it</span> jerks the debris off of <span class="mu-s">its</span> head and back you find yourself anterior to the half-wound you spied earlier. It pulses slowly, leaking a rust colored stream into the ground, devouring the native white of the snow. Two bullets left. You doubt you’ll have much effect on <span class="mu-s">it</span> with this old pistol unless you hit an eye, or find some other course to <span class="mu-s">its</span> vulnerabilities.
Out of the corner of your eye Quinton strikes down hard with his axe blade, splitting the head of one of the still alive, yet long dead victims down the middle. The former woman slumps kneeling to the ground. The very last of them makes to embrace the lumber man for some no doubt nefarious purpose. Both hands low on the haft, holding the weapon up by his shoulder, the resulting swing decapitates the last of the shambling victims as much from the force of the blow as from the weapon’s cutting edge. Panting, the big man makes his way over to you as fast as his heavy breathing and wet, bloody strides will allow him to. He looks at you, one eye swollen shut from some wallop suffered by his recent struggles. You speak low, <span class="mu-i">”Circle it, take the legs.”</span> Your voice is alien to your ears, low and ragged. Quinton doesn’t respond, but he does circle around to <span class="mu-s">its</span> left as you take <span class="mu-s">its</span> right. Small, low droning comes in waves from the creature’s central cavity. You pop out your chamber and fish for three more bullets in your satchel, fitting them in as fast as you can manage.
Advantage is a strong word, and not proper to the situation. But…you no longer feel beset by ever increasing impossibilities, and now it’s your time to rend it from a world it has no place in.
Your strategy is set, now all that remains is the execution, please roll a general combat check of 3d100, First three posters to roll will be counted.
