Feb 1, 2015
To say Jem had much love for the shooting range would be...a lie bigger than Ranger Dalca, to say the least. But there was something in the supple bend of the wood and the pull of the string and the thin thwack to the target that sated something hungry in em. In the quiver at eir shoulder the arrows stood to rigid attention, and bow in hand, Jem stalked right by the lone figure of one Perseval Houndstooth. Ey took the target two stops to the left of him, bit the glove off eir bow-hand before cramming it into eir pocket. Paused. Stuck a couple of fingers in eir mouth and whistled, then waved, grinning toothy like some night creature.
"Aft'noon, Houndstooth."