OKWAHO

“I find myself impatient with my loading speed.”  Raton mumbles the words as he watches Geralt load a deadly-looking bolt into his crossbow.  He’ll lower his gaze before continuing.  “And always surprised by the recoil.”

There was no real recoil with a bow.  Just a smooth quiet shot issued by the pullback on string made from animal intestine.  The monsters couldn’t hear it.  The humans couldn’t hear it. And it was quite hard to see.  But rarely could you find arrows for sale and it was often hard to retrieve them from beasts with blood like acid.  Making them took time, effort, and resources.  Not to mention you couldn’t shoot a bow underwater at drowners.

But that sweet, silent shot. The familiarity of a bowstring against his fingertips. No, he wouldn’t trade it for the more efficient crossbow.

“Have you ever used a bow?” He questions the other Witcher, fingers idly moving to stroke the bowstring that splayed tightly across his chest.

“You are exhausting yourself.”  Gedon keeps his voice soft as he watches the mage tend to his broken wrist. A gentle green glow radiated from her palms and seeped into his aching wrist, dulling the throbbing sensation.

However, it did nothing to dull the worry that set between his creased brows. Nanna looked tired as she worked— More tired than he’d seen her on any battlefield.  Sweat beaded her brow and she never tore her gaze away from that bright green glow.  He imagines that it must be difficult to mend a broken bone, but he recalls seeing her call forth storms and shatter the earth using much less effort than this.  Born without an ounce of magic, Gedon hadn’t a clue if the effort required to perform different magical skills was varied.  Perhaps mending a bone was more difficult than calling a storm.

Either way, he didn’t like seeing his companion exhausted.

The half-elf’s touch is gentle as he briefly catches one of her wrists with his good hand before letting go.  He hopes it will draw her attention away from the task momentarily.  His serious gaze remains on her face.  “We can splint it. I can fight with one hand.”

What was the adjective for such behavior? Modesty, was it? How foreign. Amongst his own people, such a skill would be highly praised.  There would be no room for that strange word. Modesty.

She’s tinkering with something when he approaches her, but his dark eyes are much too busy watching her thoughtful expression to notice what it was.  If only his words sounded a little more thoughtful.  “When were you going to tell me that you a master of weapons?” Gedon sounds demanding though he doesn’t mean to; Speaking softly was something he’d yet to master. “I heard this news from some villagers.”

     Of course he would have questions; he’d not expect anything less from that of Edward’s line. Lad’s always had a natural gift for ponderings and the like. So as the men walked about, each working at the given task at hand with James over looking it all as each and every boon taken is marked down accordingly by the man at his side. He looks to Connor shortly before giving a nod toward the ledger being made and turned completely to the boy who was by all rights his own grandson.

     “ ‘n I specifically said, lad.” He starts while rolling a piece of parchment up within his fingers. “to stay beneath deck.” and with that he reached over and boped the piece of paper off the top of his head lightly. The boy had a free spirit, never did as was instructed- just like Edward he supposed. Kenway never liked to listen much neither…

    “ The people won’t be missin’ much of it- seein’ as how the crown’s got plenty ta’ go round.”

         Connor crinkles his nose upon being bopped across the head.  He could feel his face growing hot from being scolded for not doing as he was told.  But below deck was boring! It smelled strongly of rum and gunpowder.  It was dark and there was nothing to look at or do— He wasn’t allowed to touch the cannons and he was teased for not being good at the dice game many of the crew played. It wasn’t like being above deck where he could count the seabirds or watch the sea foam.

        But the child didn’t dare argue with Grandfather James: That might result in a real sentence to the lower deck, where he’d be watched, assuring he wouldn’t return to the top.  Instead, he’ll redirect the conversation to the rolled-up parchment he’d been bopped with.