[b][center][h3][color=orange] Lein [/color][/h3][/center][/b]
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[b][color=orange]Location:[/color][/b] Bandit Camp, Flanking Griffon
[b][color=orange]Interactions:[/color][/b] Lucas [@Saiyan] Morianne [@Psychic Loser] Griffon [@Raineh Daze]
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Lein ducked again as the griffon knocked his - and Cecil's - arrows off their marks, leaving the griffon unscathed and still very much lively. Lein huffed an air full of hot smoke as the gale caught him as he drew another bolt, and he had to cough out his curses among his growls. [color=orange]"[i]Files de pute[/i], should've seen that one coming..."[/color]

Although Lein failed to get its aggression, the griffon had nonetheless become occupied by the gleaming spear-point of Serenity's advance, too distracted to address the two knights that had circled around toward the beast's back. Or was it because of the faint lilt from somewhere within the chaos, beckoning command? Ah wait, [b][i]I know you'll always be on top? You'll know I'll always be…on top?[/i][/b] Lein knew only one person who'd sincerely sing a string of weird double-ententes out and think to try it on some flailing mass of a beast, and that'd be the resident troubadour Morianne. Though Lein was the fool this time, watching the griffon's weave of swipes against Serenity become ever so slightly disjointed and hesitant.

Lein's eyes kept a trained attention back to the pile of darts he had cast into the fire. The slick iron darts had now become a dull crimson, ever so lightly glowing within the heat. Perhaps he had missed the chance to be the bait, but he could still be the trap. The griffon, as keen as its senses may be, was nonetheless a beast - a predator built on instinct and reaction. Surprise would break its focus, its first impulse to throw the ambushers off its back. That moment. That would be the split second Lein needed to punch some damage into the griffon.

The Hundi hunter scanned his surroundings warily as he switched his firing arm, his left now holding the bow while the other, metallic counterpart wavered hawkish above the flicker of the flame, the carved bone digits undeterred by the rising heat. [i]Maybe I should get my other arm ripped off.[/i] Lein thought, some part of him darkly amused by the fact that his prosthetic was the one that could even enable him to grab these charges. 

A bulk of the bandits had converged to the far side of the battlefield, leaving little to harass his line of fire. His timing had to be perfect. Knock it too late, and the griffon could regain purchase over itself and knock his bolts from the air again, or worse, have a chance to retaliate against the ambushers. Knock it too early, then he'd have to risk the searing heat of the bolt burning his bow and arm. Not that he'd need that time to actually draw - his aim just had to be perfect without lining up his sight.

The rear leg. The back length of it, carrying the major tendons. A big enough target.

Rope coiled, the potential motion stored firmly within the tension. An intricate collection of pulleys and enchanted metalwork clicked and confirmed its readiness.

As soon as Lucas' figure sprung from his nest, the machinery exploded into action, digits kicking up embers as it snatched a bolt from the fire, bowstring cracking dis-harmoniously with the sizzling of iron, and the bolt itself, trailing faint white smoke as it rocketed toward the griffon's leg.