Arthur and Clark exchanged dread-filled glanced before turning their combined attention back down to Roland and his cruel little smile. There wasn't a second to waste, as each passing one brought Gordon closer and closer, but what to do, what to do? Putting distance between themselves and the menacing pair didn't seem like a good idea, given what had happened to poor Geoff ... poor, poor Geoff.

Oh, what will his poor mother think ...

ANYWAY, there wasn't time to waste. Arthur's fists clenched at his sides as he stared angrily down at Roland, still covered in blood. Roland, sensing a challenge, moved to take a step, turning a spiked shoulder up at him in care he threw a punch. Clark was busily staring at the approaching Gordon.

And then, quite suddenly, he turned and soccer-kicked the little bastard right in the Rumpelstiltskin. 

Roland wasn't expecting it, busily focused on Arthur. Arthur didn't expect it, knowing Clark wasn't a fighter. Even Gordon slowed for a moment, looking a bit stunned. Stepping forward carefully, Clark prodded Roland back into a ball and lined up. Gordon, who took a few more moments to realize what was going on, dove for cover only seconds before Gordon came sailing through the air where his torso had been.

Roland, having missed his target, embedded into the second story wall of an inn with a >PING<, spiked securing him to the masonwork quite expertly. 

Arthur, still kind of stunned, turned a quizzical stare toward Clark.

Clark offered a grin. [b]"I realized ... I can kick things too"[/b] And, as if to prove his point more than being a cricket ever could, he did two effortless squats on the spot.

Arthur grinned and nodded in approval, but it was only moments before they both started to get the sense that this time would be better used fleeing, or fighting. Something anyway. Time IS generally best used for something, even if that something is a very purposeful nothing.