[center][h3]Brewing Storm [/h3]
[color=orange][b]HEAT UP[/b][/color]

[@krayzikk][@sho minazuki][@herecomesthesnow][@kaithas][@plank Sinatra][@suku][@narayank][/center]

Every atom of air, charged to capacity with tension, bore oppressively down on the would-be heroes of Beacon.  On the earth, the students dared not to move, lest the nightmarish beast that divided them from an open sky of freedom and safety sense their presence.  The decisive moments of this mission were upon them, and now the soft but portentous winds of the eye of the storm played around them.  Often enough people spoke in hushed tones of the dreaded Grimm’s rumored ability to smell fear, but whether or not the Manticore truly could, it went without saying that it was only a matter of time before the smell of man wafted upward to its nostrils and betrayed the student’s presence to this overwhelming evil.

Far above this scene, professor Goodwitch frowned slightly at Ben’s use of vulgar language, even if the situation warranted it, but she nodded in response to his plan.  “Very well.  Marine?”  The pilot of the airship, having put the flying machine into a state of hovering, perked up in acknowledgement.  “Make it uncomfortable,” Goodwitch told him icily, and a muffled sound that might have been a dark chuckle could be heard within the pilot’s helmet.  The instincts of those onboard bid them to hold tight as the vehicle spun around, angling downward to the ferocious beast that paced below.  From beneath the fuselage, a chaingun appeared, and without so much as a by-your-leave it let loose.

The sound of hundreds of rounds per second belched in ultra-quick succession from the impassionate weapon of steel seemed oddly…soothing.  Its ruthless might provided assurance that mankind’s ingenuity would not allow the howling dark to take it down easily.  The bullets ripped into the manticore’s flesh, mostly across its back where its armor, grown no doubt to defend itself from smaller creatures, did not adequately protect it.  A calamitous roar shook the landscape—a terrible cacophony of rage and pain both.

Any ordinary person would have observed the Manticore now and still taken it as a dire threat, thinking that to even escape it alive would have been a miraculous feat, without the notion of beating it anywhere near the scope of reality.  Goodwitch saw something else; so too did the astute among the present hunters-in-training, those familiar with Grimm biology.  In its frenzy, the monster was also confused, and in confusion it was vulnerable.  Narrowing her eyes as the airship turned so as to permit its occupants a view through its open rear, Goodwitch said, “As I hoped, the barrage loosened it up.  There’s a chance that you lot may be able to end it here.  It will take every one of you, attacking in sequence one after another, with all your strength, all your knowledge, and all your agility.”  Hearing this, the pilot began to lower the ship.  Goodwitch continued, “Let your instincts take over.  Fall from the sky and strike with all you’ve got.  Once you begin, those on the ground can chime in.  It’s time to finish the job.”

So saying, Goodwitch leaped from the open ramp.  As she fell, she span several times, and around her like the eddies of a hurricane a storm of magic grew.  The Manticore’s crimson eyes fixated on the purple light around her, and it sent a gargantuan paw up to slice her to ribbons.  In that instant she struck.  Like the blast of an immense shotgun, a spread of arcane bolts careened into the paw, throwing it back the way it came just as quickly.  Another more concentrated volley flew immediately after toward the base of its newly-exposed foreleg, gouging the flesh and spraying black smoke out of the wound into the muggy marsh air.  With elegance Goodwitch landed on the earth immediately after, buoyed up by her telekinesis.  Hers was a tough act to follow, but Beacon’s finest could do nothing less than exactly that.