She doesn't break stride as she slips Peacemaker from its holster at her hip and raises it to shoulder level, staring down the barrel at the Forest Talker dead to rights in her sight before she squeezes the trigger. The ancient Buntline responds, its report crashing through the air.
The Forest Talker staggers and growls as a neat hole appears in the chest of his coat, but he doesn't stop moving forward even as blood soaks the ragged edges of the tear. Even stumbling, he's lifting his ax, rushing forward with his fellows as Wynonna thumbs the hammer down again. She feels cold to the core; everything seems to be drifting in slow motion.
And she's got Doc— no, it's Raylan, Raylan's at her side, taller and rangier but with that same keen gleam in his eyes. He's not like so many of the others she's met here: he'll use those weapons in his hands to remove this threat, just like she will. She's grateful for it, for him, in this moment, even if that feeling is as distant as all the others but the diamond-edge of rage. "Three to two? Doesn't seem fair, does it?"
cw: blood, violence of all kinds
The Forest Talker staggers and growls as a neat hole appears in the chest of his coat, but he doesn't stop moving forward even as blood soaks the ragged edges of the tear. Even stumbling, he's lifting his ax, rushing forward with his fellows as Wynonna thumbs the hammer down again. She feels cold to the core; everything seems to be drifting in slow motion.
And she's got Doc— no, it's Raylan, Raylan's at her side, taller and rangier but with that same keen gleam in his eyes. He's not like so many of the others she's met here: he'll use those weapons in his hands to remove this threat, just like she will. She's grateful for it, for him, in this moment, even if that feeling is as distant as all the others but the diamond-edge of rage. "Three to two? Doesn't seem fair, does it?"