Blastphemy - Part Three

Once the first set of wheels spins off the precipice, any chance of pulling her back evaporates like sea spray. The gun's nose swings down and the center of gravity lunges forward, tipping the pulsating works arse over teakettle. Merrisol, heaving back on the breach right until the last, finds himself lofted on the upending piece and pitched loose. He falls more horizontally for the first few moments, slowed by updrafts and drama, before he plummets, headfirst and facing land. The view affords him a glimpse of Ruby lunging for the graceful sword hilt, as though wiley coyote physics will let her make a swipe for it, then scrabble back across thin air to the crag. Nothing doing; over she goes, and there's Mercier latched to one of her ankles. Before Merrisol can see whether someone equally brave and foolish is holding onto Mercier's own legs, it all passes beyond his periphery and is rain, rocks, and bluffs all the rest of the way down. The cannon is a bit ahead of the race thanks to streamlining, but at this rate they're all going to hit water at around the same block of seconds. What matters at this point is /how/.

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