He wasn't sure a squash—big and rind-teeth or not—could actually hurt him, but there was something to be said for peace and quiet. To be able to stand still and breathe without a pack of murderous vegetables trying to swarm up your legs, intent on your slow and likely pulpy and painful destruction. Simply put, they'd come to the point where Rory just wanted them to stop, but that didn't seem to be a thing in their vocabulary.
So he stood there, repeatedly throwing the head of his pike down into the soft flesh of the squash, wondering what the other large one would do to them when it came close. Just nip at their ankles?
A thing, though: it could probably hurt the fox.
And the fox sped past him, full of bravery as it took on the other squash, stopping it from getting any closer to Rory. He saw it slide over the top of the smooth green gourd and disappear behind it.
With his face set into a mask of unhappy determination Rory looked down at his own pumpkin; the light in its eyes had gone out and it no longer struggled against the pike. Around him was a fruity mess, soft orange flesh and seeds strewn across the impromptu battlefield. A few gourds still struggled in the goo, one of them being the huge one the fox had tipped over. Rory hefted the pike, with the other pumpkin still on it, and brought it down hard over the other; not like it'd hurt the still whole one, but the dead one exploded in a spray of pumpkin pieces. Pulling his aching arm back Rory lifted the pike's tip again, before dropping it in the incapacitated gourd.
As said before: it wasn't like they were difficult to kill, but he'd be sore in a couple of hours. He wasn't used to this constant stab-stab-stabbity-stabbing, and he was beginning to feel it, so the relative quiet was a welcome change of pace. Grunting, Rory swung the protesting impaled gourd towards the remaining ones, flattening two of them into puddles and sending the last one flying back a couple of yards. Oh, well. It'd come back and die. Or it would take off and be spared. Rory didn't care, just stood there with his makeshift pumpkin hammer and watched it with wary eyes, waiting to see what it would do.
So he stood there, repeatedly throwing the head of his pike down into the soft flesh of the squash, wondering what the other large one would do to them when it came close. Just nip at their ankles?
A thing, though: it could probably hurt the fox.
And the fox sped past him, full of bravery as it took on the other squash, stopping it from getting any closer to Rory. He saw it slide over the top of the smooth green gourd and disappear behind it.
With his face set into a mask of unhappy determination Rory looked down at his own pumpkin; the light in its eyes had gone out and it no longer struggled against the pike. Around him was a fruity mess, soft orange flesh and seeds strewn across the impromptu battlefield. A few gourds still struggled in the goo, one of them being the huge one the fox had tipped over. Rory hefted the pike, with the other pumpkin still on it, and brought it down hard over the other; not like it'd hurt the still whole one, but the dead one exploded in a spray of pumpkin pieces. Pulling his aching arm back Rory lifted the pike's tip again, before dropping it in the incapacitated gourd.
As said before: it wasn't like they were difficult to kill, but he'd be sore in a couple of hours. He wasn't used to this constant stab-stab-stabbity-stabbing, and he was beginning to feel it, so the relative quiet was a welcome change of pace. Grunting, Rory swung the protesting impaled gourd towards the remaining ones, flattening two of them into puddles and sending the last one flying back a couple of yards. Oh, well. It'd come back and die. Or it would take off and be spared. Rory didn't care, just stood there with his makeshift pumpkin hammer and watched it with wary eyes, waiting to see what it would do.
