dorian. post-festival, evening: target range.
HE CARRIES HIS knives to a small field near the back of the town, thinking there will be no one else outside to disturb his practice, but he’s surprised when he sees someone he doesn’t recognize --not because he doesn’t recognize him, as he’s only been there for two weeks, but that they’re outside at all. Most of the people he’s encountered here have been babies about the cold. This a good first impression, he must admit. In silence, he rolls his knives out onto the makeshift table there, a piece of plywood set atop a pair of a-frame stands, and carefully selects the first one he’ll throw. Before he does, he looks to the man near him.
“You throw knives, or just bullets, стрелок*?”
@marksmanmaddox
