RP: 188604 [Flight of the Dove] Episode 1: Royal Flush

@ArsenicJohn @Primitive Polygon (Since Navian isn't coming back, let's finish this up.)

Arena

Flynn gritted his teeth and raised his revolver with both hands, his heavy rounds loaded.

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

He fired thrice at the bike approaching him The first shot went wide, but the second shot hit an air-intake, causing a small explosion that rocked the bike violently and nearly threw the rider. The last hit the rider himself in the stomach, tearing through whatever meager armor there was and leaving a massive hole the size of a softball. Slowly, the rider swayed, then slumped forward on the controls. The bike went nose first into the dirt and began tumbling directly towards him. Flynn cursed and dropped to the floor, feeling the heat of the thrusters wash over his back before he rolled onto his back and saw the bike slam into the wall, creating a massive fireball.

Sarena's company of mercenaries began opening fire as well, and two more bikes rushed directly for Promise and Corgan respectively.

Seeing one of their comrades go down so quickly, the remaining three bikes charged into the fray.

Arena

There could have been an argument made about muscle memory, a mercenary used to dismounting men from their horses, but the howl that Promise made was just so utterly feral, the fire in their darkly shaded eye so wild and fierce... The creature that had been spawned was difficult to correlate with the soft, unassuming country girl at all. The only words for it were being possessed.

The shotgun blazed from both barrels, but no matter how true Flynn had told her to aim, the backwater firearm was about as harmful as throwing snowballs to modern armour. The gun itself went next, slung spinning through the dust and clattering into the airbike's rider with cumulative force; It didn't knock him off, but they were forced to occupy their sword with deflecting it.

Building up speed during all of this distraction, Promise dragged her awkward heeled boots into a lunging run. One thing left to throw...

Leaping. A furious screech. It was like a clothes line, only... Not. Very not. The hook fastened onto the blank stump of their left hand met with the enemies' neck at about thirty kilometers per hour, carrying on straight through and exploding with a spectacular spray of deep red vital fluid.

The zeal-fueled woman hit the dirt rolling, as the vehicle dipped and performed half a dozen self-destructive front flips in her wake. Green checkered dress covered down the left side with blood, they seemed to attempt lunging right back up again, only to hit the wall of their merely organic body and lurch over once more.

Still, it could be seen in the glare of their cracked glasses. This fury wasn't even close to satisfied.