Popping up from behind my rock, my hand flies to the hilt of my blade. Jackson's crew won't reload in time, now, if their gun is even still serviceable, and I've seen dragons with missing limbs wade straight into defensive positions with all the claws and teeth they've got left- which is usually enough.
While it's vulnerable, I have to end it. The front is bad, but there's no good way to approach a dragon in melee- from the front you've got the teeth, from the sides, the wings, from the back, the tail.
However, I have neglected Nate. Still screaming like the dragon's the queen of England, he runs straight up it's tail, down it's spine, and buries his lance right between the shoulder blades.
As the head of the beat snaps around to take Nate with it, there's a brief scream of steel against stone and the last bolt nails the fucker through the neck, cutting the spine and putting it down for good. I turn to look in the direction of the shot, and see the long scratch on the side of an obelisk. The last ballista finally got it's angle, by inches.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how the Rangers hunt dragons.