Force without clockwork advantage was merely wasted driving force.
On the dark rock terrace overlooking the gorged ravine, forty feet above the thrashing Abyssal Patriarch, Giles Croft adjusted the height barrel of his stereoscopic sighting scope. His gaze remained locked on the bubbling emerald lake churning within the monster’s throat.
The creature’s massive lower jaw hung open like an iron quarry hopper, venting acidic vapor that ate into the stone retaining walls below.
Beside him, Toby Karr gripped his brass clipboard with white knuckles, checking the distance readouts.
“The acid level is rising through the esophageal tract,” Toby reported. He shouted over the underground roar.
“Flow speed indicates discharge in less than thirty seconds. If that stream reaches the portal, the acid mist will scour the terrace.”
Kenneth Drake stepped to the low roof wall, his hand resting on the handle of his pacing rod.
“We must strike its crown,” Kenneth urged, his jaw set in rigid resolve.
