[At this point, Alec has made it abundantly clear that he has no intention to help, and Rufus doesn’t expect as much. Instead, he leaves him at the entrance to watch for as long as his heart desires. It’s a smaller nest, which is good to know, but even if it were a group of ten or twenty, it would be difficult to tell if his reaction would have been any different. If his confidence, purposefully worn and yet utterly sincere, would at all falter.
With the way he moves down the slope, eyes forward and shotgun at the ready, all signs point to “no”.
Anything he does will be the equivalent of kicking the hornet’s nest, and Rufus feels no need to be subtle. The first shot is a cheap one — directed at the nearest drake with the clearest line of sight, perched lower than the rest and unawares until the last minute. It’s a direct hit, the spread embedding itself into its back, buckshot tearing into wings and pushing into its spine. It shrieks and tries to take flight, only to careen to the ground, kicking up dust uselessly.
The other drakes, of course, take notice — their startlement soon turns to aggression, and those not already mid-flight take to the air. Rufus cocks his shotgun a second time.]
Let’s not drag this out.
[And the fight starts in earnest.
Rufus is quick — perhaps surprisingly so for someone who doesn’t make a living fighting — and even as the drakes encircle him, swooping in low with talons flashing in the Midgar sun, he either sidesteps, or twists his body, or simply dodges out of the way at the last second. He counts his shots, times them just right as each drake passes by. Each one ends up with a shot to the wing, and when he’s lucky, he can fire one in the opened-jaws if he times it just right, and the spread lodges itself in the back of its throat. One catches some in the eyes, and falls to the ground, blinded. It’s easy enough to finish that one off when it’s thrashing at his feet.
It goes smoothly enough until they’re down to two. Rufus is still only human, and though he is quick and calculating, luck will only remain with him for so long. This drake is particularly angry, throwing its entire body into Rufus, sending him skidding back and nearly upending his balance. He digs his heels into he ground to remain upright, sending one more scattered shot straight into the beast’s belly, but the second takes this opportunity to catch him deep across the shoulder with an extended talon as it swoops by.
He hisses, pain searing, and the drawn blood soaks warmly into his clothes. It’s ignored — it isn’t his dominant arm that’s affected, and so when the creature comes ‘round and makes an attempt to do the same, Rufus turns his body to aim one-handed down the muzzle. He fires. The drake collides into him. The result is a skewed shot that partly slams into the ground, and the rest straight into the neck of the monster.
Both shotgun and drake fall to the ground, skidding in the soil. The creature is quick to bleed out, but it’s not dead just yet, trying to regain its footing in its dazed state. Rufus knows it doesn’t have long, and just leaves it there for now.]
Tch. [A hand presses to his wound, cut deep between shoulder and neck. He’s fortunate it didn’t sever muscle or tendon.]
no subject
With the way he moves down the slope, eyes forward and shotgun at the ready, all signs point to “no”.
Anything he does will be the equivalent of kicking the hornet’s nest, and Rufus feels no need to be subtle. The first shot is a cheap one — directed at the nearest drake with the clearest line of sight, perched lower than the rest and unawares until the last minute. It’s a direct hit, the spread embedding itself into its back, buckshot tearing into wings and pushing into its spine. It shrieks and tries to take flight, only to careen to the ground, kicking up dust uselessly.
The other drakes, of course, take notice — their startlement soon turns to aggression, and those not already mid-flight take to the air. Rufus cocks his shotgun a second time.]
Let’s not drag this out.
[And the fight starts in earnest.
Rufus is quick — perhaps surprisingly so for someone who doesn’t make a living fighting — and even as the drakes encircle him, swooping in low with talons flashing in the Midgar sun, he either sidesteps, or twists his body, or simply dodges out of the way at the last second. He counts his shots, times them just right as each drake passes by. Each one ends up with a shot to the wing, and when he’s lucky, he can fire one in the opened-jaws if he times it just right, and the spread lodges itself in the back of its throat. One catches some in the eyes, and falls to the ground, blinded. It’s easy enough to finish that one off when it’s thrashing at his feet.
It goes smoothly enough until they’re down to two. Rufus is still only human, and though he is quick and calculating, luck will only remain with him for so long. This drake is particularly angry, throwing its entire body into Rufus, sending him skidding back and nearly upending his balance. He digs his heels into he ground to remain upright, sending one more scattered shot straight into the beast’s belly, but the second takes this opportunity to catch him deep across the shoulder with an extended talon as it swoops by.
He hisses, pain searing, and the drawn blood soaks warmly into his clothes. It’s ignored — it isn’t his dominant arm that’s affected, and so when the creature comes ‘round and makes an attempt to do the same, Rufus turns his body to aim one-handed down the muzzle. He fires. The drake collides into him. The result is a skewed shot that partly slams into the ground, and the rest straight into the neck of the monster.
Both shotgun and drake fall to the ground, skidding in the soil. The creature is quick to bleed out, but it’s not dead just yet, trying to regain its footing in its dazed state. Rufus knows it doesn’t have long, and just leaves it there for now.]
Tch. [A hand presses to his wound, cut deep between shoulder and neck. He’s fortunate it didn’t sever muscle or tendon.]