Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-69.31.217.91-20141120035513/@comment-25686329-20141215043646

Plutarch hadn't had this much fun in months. It was like fighting a demon coyote.

Bloody, wild, savage, and ravenous... but fun.

He didn't register he was bleeding something awful until the dragon boy made a feral lunge for the wound.

He considered waiting longer to use his trump card, but now was as good as time as any; this was becoming less and less a sport to his opponent. He knew that the dragon boy would survive the oncoming attack, but this would shut him down.

Eh, heck with it thought Plutarch.

He drew the knife from the inside of his shirt, a long and cruel edge. He plunged it into the scaly torso of his attacker and sidestepped the dregs, the aftermath of the fading attack.

For good measure, he drew a pistol from a shoulder holster and almost drunkenly began firing off rounds. These were rubber bullets -- not enough to kill, but they'd hurt enough to just about knock you out. All the shots connected and Plutarch watched the boy drop to the floor and writhe after about two shots. Butch Cavendish didn't take chances in combat, and neither did his son; Plutarch continued to fire off the full cylinder of the revolver until hearing a few anti-climatic clicks.

The boy on the floor only shifted slightly.

(( FYI, I'd love for Char and Cavendish to become friends in the end.))