The Cyclops stood on the cliff edge at Sicily, shaking a fist at the darkening sky. Monsoon Intimidation. He was a shepherd of sheep and a thrower of rocks, and he hated getting wet.
The clouds swirled, black and purple. From the center of the storm descended the Thunderbird.
It was immense, its wingspan eclipsing the sun, lightning arcing between its feathers. It was not just a bird; it was a weather system with a beak.
Rock vs Sky
The Cyclops roared. He picked up a boulder the size of a house.
Boulder-Sunder.
He heaved it with Olympian strength. The rock soared into the sky, aimed at the storm's heart.
The Thunderbird didn't dodge. It flapped its wings once. Wing-Thunder.
The sonic boom pulverized the boulder in mid-air. It rained down as gravel, bouncing harmlessly off the giant’s shoulders.
The Cyclops squinted, grabbing another rock. "Bird!" he bellowed. "Come down!"
The Precision Strike
The Thunderbird shrieked. It gathered the electricity of the storm into a single point.
Lightning Javelin.
It didn't rain fire; it sniped. A jagged bolt of white-hot energy shot down from the heavens. It bypassed the Cyclops's club, bypassed his thick hide, and struck the one target he couldn't armor.
His eye.
The explosion blinded the giant instantly, frying his brain and knocking him backward off the cliff. He fell into the boiling sea with a splash that swamped the coast.
The Thunderbird circled once, the storm rumbling in satisfaction, before climbing back into the upper atmosphere.