Cannons heaved their leaded breaths, sonic pulses at first coercing flinches here and there as he aimed and fired, but time came when Colt filed the thundering away to something dismissible. Accuracy employed, each firing was right on target, little-only when in comparison to the body which they implanted themselves-shells burrowing and then bursting like infectious agents, only instead of blooming to a protracted decay, the dissolving of tissue was instantaneous and explosive. A whole round was unloaded, and there was a sloppy wedge of singed, hanging particles, a gate for all sanguine rivers to flow freely through. The thing twitched, not only from the carving in its side from his weapon, but the sum of the assault it initiated upon its decision to make the wrong ship its din-din. That wasn't to say every little flex did not add to the agonized moans of the wood as impulsive contractions resulted with every anguished twinge.

Artful flick of the weapon down, the removal of shells, celerity in the motions impressive from most any's perspective, but the halted with a new peal matchless by any other in the evening, thus far. Onslaught of the cannons, barreling spheres of terrific force pushing the air, slugging deep into salted flesh, tunnels just the size of that a small child might explore in curiosity. The first of the distractions was nothing to consider when the following act unfurled. Phantoms came to play, and Colt had never beheld any phenomenon as what was perceived through the splintering frame of his perch. No visible source or trajectory could be exacted, only the damage perceptible, and scales, meat and bone gyred and tore as though a drill, enormous as one might imagine a god to handle, had taken to it like an oak plank. Vision alone, that gruesome sight, was far from the only attribute of the discharge experience. All the cannons fired in unison might have well rivaled it, but this singular blast was enough to send shock through the gunner like the grace of a livewire, several feet covered in a backward hop away from the opening. Rattled, he could only maintain the functions of breathing, standing and staring (with the rare blinking) for several seconds. Processes halted in that pause, only capable of receiving input, though analysis would come at a far later time, once all panic had been filed away-neatly or otherwise.

Lid-peeled observation lasted only so long until another shift shook his stability along with his captivation, sense falling back into place as it dawned on him that there was nothing in his arsenal to compete with whatever unseen ordnance current spewed its eidolic flesh-churners. There was no way the thing was living though that, no possible chance. Scarce was there reason enough for him to stand and watch longer than he had, just the same. Really, what was it in his head that convinced him any sort of handgun was going to do any significant damage to the beast, anyway? Why had he stuck around to begin with? Perhaps for what was witnessed seconds prior, some glimpse of hope that they had even a sliver of a chance of survival. Whatever it may have been, something had given him the green to pull out, right then and there. He, for one, knew he preferred certain company over that of witless deckhands in his final moments over others.

Clumsy clatter of leather soles, for the instability of the grounds over his own nimble-if any were so bold to so name it-carriage, drummed glossed slabs, a few trips, slides into the wall and unwilling submissions to gravity later and he was at the door of his shared, now tossed chamber. Shaking, dire clench snared the knob, twisted and pushed.... To be met with results less than what he had hoped. Another, more forceful application in hopes of jarring the barrier loose, but it became apparent that some sort of blockade existed on the opposite side.

"Lirooooy... Liroy!" Colt hissed low and frantic, both hands now on the knob, shoulder leaning into the gate as soles slipped in vain efforts to break through. "Open the door, douchecanoe!" By that time, moderation had been abandoned, another being down on the level housing the roosts a rarity during the call to arms, never mind his discrediting the likelihood any would recall or trust their memories to wonder at any peculiar sayings uttered from his mouth. What in the world was his brother doing at a time like this, anyway? Was blocking off the door really going to save him when the whole ship was caving in? Not that Colt had much sense in his current actions, them being none that would contribute to anyone's preservation in the least.