#gotta keep that sorry beefcake bf alive somehow

[coppermarigolds]

48 Ereloy

48 - rampage

He’s out in the fields, investigating a disturbance beyond Meridian’s towers when the Stormbird surprises him. Wouldn’t think it possible for something that size to be capable of sneaking, but he turns around and there it is, cresting a hill and bearing down on him fast. It’s big as death and twice as ugly. 

He has just enough time to hoist his axe before the Stormbird knocks him sprawling. His armor absorbs most of the hit, but he still takes a pretty good knock on the head. When he pulls himself to his feet, for a moment the world spins enough to make him think he’s back at the pub.

And the bird’s already coming back around for another pass. 

Erend looks at his axe, then back at the machine. A trusty weapon, his axe, but the whole of the blade is maybe the size of the Stormbird’s right eye. Just the beat of its wings might be enough to crumble Avad’s fancy palace towers. 

Not great odds. 

Maybe it won’t be so bad, he thinks. There are worse ways of going out than this. Better an epic, if short, battle against a massive death machine than something like tripping down the tavern stairs and bashing his head on a stray rock. Ersa would never let him live that down, for as long as the afterlife lasts. 

But this…maybe she’ll be proud of him, if this is his end. Maybe it’s even why he keeps taking these solo missions out to the middle of nowhere, just him and the sky and a world full of metal monsters that want him dead. 

He plants his feet on the soil and lifts his axe. Stares the Stormbird right in its soulless eyes as it hurtles toward him. The drumming of its wings almost deafens him, shaking the ground. He can see tiny pebbles jumping around his boots, and in the distance, a cloud of dust streams toward him. 

Wait. That’s not from the Stormbird. 

It dawns on him seconds before the machine swoops in with a shrieking caw, beak gaping wide. He tucks his shoulder and rolls away at the last moment, lumbering upright and squinting into the distance, ignoring the bird’s outraged screech. Just ahead of the dust cloud is a Thunderjaw, stampeding faster than he’s ever seen. Its enormous legs churn the earth, and atop its neck a figure balances, limbs braced, bowstrings drawn taut in her hands. Her hair billows behind her, red as a cry for blood.   

Erend grins. When he turns back to the Stormbird, this time he hefts his axe a little higher.

Sorry, Ersa, he thinks. I won’t be seeing you today after all. The odds just got a whole lot better.