miles baines: riff-raff! street rat! (mimicks) wrote in emillion,
miles/tom/guy
Miles had been right on the verge of dozing off, with his legs up against the seat opposite him, head tilted into the corner of the carriage, coat bundled up and wadded under his chin for a pillow. Their meticulously-written maps were rolled up and safely stored in scroll-cases, their luggage from a two-day trip rolling around with the hypnotic swaying of the carriage as it rumbled back towards Emillion.
But just when he was about to drift into some well-needed sleep, the carriage ran to an abrupt halt, throwing both men forward in their seats, the wheels screeching.
The mimes exchanged a look, Miles rolling his eyes. He leaned forward to shout at their driver: “Oy, look here, what’s the hold—”
Only to be interrupted by a splintering crash, as a clay golem’s fist smashed through the carriage wall right above Thomas’ head. Bricks sent wood flying, letting in the bitter cold and snow from outside.
“What the fuck!” Miles yowled as the carriage fell apart around them, spilling two thieves and a startled driver out into the road, with what looked like a nightmarish battle unfolding in the highway ahead of them.
A golem loomed above the carriage, its furnace steaming in the cold.
“What!?”
There was not much else to do but launch into action, and Tom did so with the lithe grace of a cat which had been slumbering peacefully until it had fallen off of its perch and found its way, mercifully, upon all four feet.
"Bloody hell," Tom uttered loudly, his hand instantly at his hip, withdrawing his gun. The menacing creature facing them did not look like something he wished to embrace in hand-to-hand combat; even as a corsair, he had prepared to fight with some distance between himself and his opponents. The battle ahead looked perilous and Tom suspected Miles would have a hard enough time trying to sing them all to sleep.
"Miles," he barked, "Stand close."
Fortunately for the assailed pair of men, back-up was already on its way.
Call had gone out to the taskforce, and luckily for all, Guy Lenard had not been so very far from the excitement as to fail to answer it. A synergist cut no heroic figure in the midst of the intense fighting now being waged outside the city, but what he lacked in sword and shining armor, he at least made up for in good travel sense. "Well now," he said to his loyal avian friend, "looks like they're in a bit a bind, doesn't it?" In the distance, the bards looked like little more than two flailing figures.
Cecil, harried chocobo and experienced Bird of Adventure, snorted out what might have been an agreement, and with a courageous flap of his wings, began to bound his way over toward the fighting. Adjusting his frost-tinged goggles, Guy made a quick estimation of his casting distance and chanted the incantation for Enthunder at the unknown man's brandished pistol.
He shook his head. "Not the best time to be out for a leisurely tour, I'll admit!"
Cecil dashed in close, a burst of bright yellow feathers against the kicked-up snow, stopping only to "KWEH!" in emphasis at the other unfortunate man who had spilled out of the carriage.