[center][img]https://i.gyazo.com/31440370545d06cd672ff25309222dde.png[/img]
[h3][color=ed1c24]Jonas Highwind[/color][/h3]
[url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pRKPqQyIzA8]Pond Pugilists[/url]
[@NeoAC][@Plank Sinatra][@Krayzikk][@Altered Tundra][@Write][/center]

[color=ed1c24]The screams that had heralded the arrival of these monsters had given me mere seconds of warning, before Vivian's introduces them to the light. I pick up upon the first, and by the time I hear the second, it almost feels as if somebody else has left the driver's seat to me.

I am here. I am present.

I am born for a time such as this.

All at once, my threat matrix has changed. This is far from the time to be worried about spats with girls. Hound-shaped manifestations of shadow, each with prehensile tendrils rising from their inky fur, wide paws ending in ten claws apiece, and baleful crimson eyes that pierce the soul. I run through my mental catalog of beasts from myth... Either I'm rusty, have a blind spot, or am coming up with nothing.

Not good. In that case, what is needed is an active logging of abilities. Shape and call resemble that of wolves. Tactics...

We're surrounded. They've cut a half-ring round our little nugget of shoreline. Melting out of the trees and splitting off to cover holes, these bastards are working as one cohesive unit.

Similar enough to wolves. So saying, but there is no clear alpha amongst them. Too much to ask for. With such a social dynamic either hidden to me or otherwise unexploitable, I move onto the next best idea.

I will scatter them.

A knock upon the door in my head, and I consult my mental library. Myths from the world over flood forth. Tales, songs, prose, and verse. It is far from complete. Thinking of it like that would neuter my strength as well as be way too damn arrogant. It is, however, extensive and obsessive. Imagined faces of those I wish to emulate, to recreate, to become flash by as great acts, deeds beyond human measure, are rattled off in lightning quick succession. Kings, Warriors, Knights, Samurai, Gurus. Those that ascended to immortality in the collected tales of humanity. I search. I search.

I search for the hero who wielded the weapon I have in mind. I do not take long in finding him.

At the same time, I hear murmurs run through the crowd. I only know a select few here well enough to have a worthwhile opinion on their skills in a fight, as well as how to utilize them. I'll have to trust many to either fend for themselves, or listen to those of us that can fend for others. There are dozens of shadowy beasts to maybe two dozen of us. Under the assumption that they aren't much stronger than their perfectly normal counterparts, I know for certain I could take on this whole pack. I am not Herakles, not yet, but I am certainly a class above what it takes to survive this encounter.

A bow of hardy Yew appears in my left hand with a flash. My Father's armory has answered my request and granted me an old favorite. Bit of a cheat, but in a battle against literal shadow, I don't have a problem with flubbing things in the slightest. If Kelso wants to grill me over it, she can do it later if she promises to shore up my technique.

This, however, is not your normal day at the archery range. A fantastic foe calls for a fantastic armament, and amongst bows, this one is easily my best bet.

I nock an arrow, fashioned from the feathers of the [i]Ornithes Areioi[/i]. Brought them with me in case we ran into something setting the party up—

What I hold is a [i]Glorious Eidolon[/i]. A copied image from the armory of My Father himself, filtered by my own understanding of what I request. A storage of theoretically infinite volume, containing likely every weapon ever created. It is bound to have abstractions that come close to genuine articles from myth, and this was one such. A shadow in its own right, one that is cast by something emblematic of a hero.

Failnaught. Fail-Not in some translations. The bow of Tristan, A hero of Cornwall, Knight of the Round Table, and Lover of Iseult. It never misses its target, each shot taken with perfect accuracy. Innate to the bow, the concept of "never missing" is potent indeed. Really difficult to attempt to replicate.

But even through my understanding of an old legend, of which there are many interpretations, it remains after a fashion. These shots will have a homing capability. Not total accuracy by any stretch. It won't be able to loop around and hit you in the back...

But it's more than enough to adjust course mid-flight.

My aim is pretty good already. This is just insurance.

I can hear a pin drop. The atmosphere has changed. It's about to go down.

I inhale, and with it, draw the Failnaught Image to full, shoulders, arm, and back working like a tandem of steel cables. It's a practiced motion. There's no clause that says I can't work my ass off at an aspect of war that an Apollo or Artemis child has a preternatural gift for. I've been working my ass off everywhere.

I level the bow, holding my arrow steady. Luckily, nobody's in front of me yet.

Nobody except my targets. A whole bunch, all lined up in a neat little row.

Perfect.

They howl again—

And charge.

Immediately, with neither hesitation nor trepidation, my eyes flash to the area of the line where they are packed the densest.

The bow follows, and I release the arrow.

Their charge is met with sound, fire, and [i]force[/i] as it explodes in their midst, equaling explosive yield to a modern grenade.

I am already barking orders even as I draw another to send downrange. My voice booms clear, thanks to big lungs, a strong core, and a whole lot of yelling experience. I may not have any clue what I can do with most of these people, but I know a few other [i]very[/i] well.

Bekah will argue that I leave planning to her. Normally, I would acquiesce, but this ball needs rolling, and I have at least a preliminary one in mind. One that takes into account the mass of those that likely are not up for this.

"Rhea! Gather up everyone who can't fight and hit the water! You can keep them safe there!"

My faithful student. She can manipulate the sea itself. Physicality is greatly enhanced after only partial submersion. Could keep things at bay through that combination much better than on land.

"Marcy, scare these things if you can! Fear of God on deck now!"

Command over the fear of death. Could override pack cohesion, plus alter this upcoming choice in melee weaponry.

"Dana! Bekah! Kelsey! Truck's as good elevation as you'll get without climbing trees!"

Three who are as proficient or outright better than me in ranged combat. For at least one, important information. Dana will... at some point, probably get bored of blasting with her gun and come down to kick something. Bekah's the brains of the operation, her having eyes on as much of the field as possible is good. Kelsey is a no-brainer— a natural-born savant of anything that was a projectile. Of course you stick the ranger somewhere high.

As the wolves approach, the image of a pair of swords swells in my mind. The most infamous pair of Spain's history, and terrors of the Moors.

"If anyone's got weapon requests, say so now!"[/color]