sir rictor cassul, korporal. (templars) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-11-26 09:19:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !complete, !log, magnolia paget, rictor cassul |
bang, bang.
Who: Mag Paget & Rictor Cassul
What: A pissing contest.
Where: Shieldwyrm shooting range.
When: Sunday Nov 17, after this.
Rating: G.
Status: Complete!
There was no silver lining to this mess. After getting back, Mag had gone straight home and tried to distract herself by checking her network messages, but even the vaguely-scarring thought of Lav in his sister’s clothes, while amusing, wasn’t doing anything to take her mind off the problem at hand. She had resolved to give Kiernan a little space—no doubt he’d appreciate it, after having his noisy relatives swooping around him for a full week—but the temptation to go find him and try to cheer him up somehow was strong. Yet she had no idea what to do to cheer him up; she’d been trying to support him as best as she had been able, the previous week, but it was a far harder task when he pretended nothing was wrong at all. And so she had two choices left: break her no drinking before noon rule, or head to the guildhalls and find a dummy to take her frustrations out on. Before she headed out, on a whim, she shot off a message to Rictor. If he was anything like her—and as time passed, she was more and more convinced that they were uncannily alike in some ways—he wouldn’t say no to a little pissing match. They’d had drinking contests before, but she’d never seen him around the shooting range before. She had also never seen him entirely sober before, so perhaps it would be a day for discoveries. He wasn’t there yet when Mag arrived at the shooting range in Shieldwyrm Hall. She contemplated waiting for him, but ultimately decided to get started without him. He could join her when he arrived, and those paper targets hanging there were just begging to be shot. Once her eyes and ears were properly protected, she loaded her gun and aimed. The first shot hit the paper hume right between the eyes. The subsequent shots drummed into the paper and collided with the padded wall behind it, a muffled booming bang ringing with each bullet. After the smoke cleared – sucked out of the room by whirring Aero magicite – then Rictor stepped away from the soundproofed door, flipping his headphones off until they rested against his neck like an oversized collar. He’d arrived sometime during the first round, slipping unnoticed into the indoor range in the midst of the noise. Stepping up alongside Mag, Rictor surveyed the results of her handiwork, head tilted slightly. The walk from Hellwyrm to Shieldwyrm brought the holy knight out of his usual stomping ground, hence the delay. “Glad you suggested this,” he said, an unceremonious greeting. “I know too many archers. Shooting with ‘em is just fine, but it’s not the same.” Mag spotted him out of the corner of her eye and pulled her ear protectors down to catch the end of his sentence. “Ah, the great Rictor Cassul, and sober this time. It’s an honor.” “I could say the same for you,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “Are you ever not armed with firewhiskey?” “A lady has to be prepared.” She grinned and nodded at her abused paper target. “So, think you could do better?” “Obviously.” Ric hit the button that would bring the target sliding closer to them on its rails, and he plucked the paper like harvesting fruit from a tree, casting an approving look over the bullet holes. While the older knight went about pinning up fresh targets for the both of them across two lanes, the Korporal went to fetch one of the rifles from the side locker. Extreme distance wasn’t their usual modus operandi. Mag with her shotgun and Rictor with his gunblade, both of their specialties obviously lay in mid-range attacks: up close and personal, as they preferred it. But combat engagements occasionally called for longer distance attacks, requiring something further than arrows could fly, and so Rictor threw himself into sharpshooting practice whenever he wasn’t sparring. Practice never ended. One could never be good enough. Not really. He hefted the rifle, testing its weight in his grip. “Shot practice,” Rictor said, far too charmed with his own pun. “Guess we’ll have done it both ways, then.” “And last time, if I remember correctly, you were the first to leave the table.” Mag couldn’t help laughing at the pun, and following up with, “Ready for the next round?” “Aye, more than. Bottoms up.” She reloaded her gun as he examined the weapon he’d picked from the locker. New, untouched targets were lined up down the firing lane. They stood side by side, each of them going through the same familiar routine like a sacred ritual. Gun, target, protectors: check. When Mag raised her weapon to take aim, she glanced at Rictor out of the corner of her eye, his stance a carbon copy of hers; she smiled, and turned back to the target. Her finger closed around the trigger and pulled. The gunshots formed a drumming heartbeat, reverberating through their ribcages and down to the soles of their boots. When he took his turn at the target, the recoil bucked in Ric’s hands but he rode the movement, adjusting to the kick. They alternated, trading off and watching each others’ progress, squinting through the safety visors and the smoke as it cleared. It was cathartic, this act of setting chin against the grip and eye against the sight, squinting down the barrel, lining up their targets and watching the bullet-holes piercing the paper. They were close. It took a careful eye to spot the differences. He was the first to leave the bar table—but here, weighing Mag’s five years with the gun against his ten, Rictor pulled slightly ahead. He’d heaved himself into guns ever since picking up the gunblade as a newly-minted knight in Kerwon, gravitating towards the weapon that would create the most difficulty, require the most training, that left him peerless in that hall. The pair of knights looked over the bullet-ridden papers together, shoulders butting. “Close enough for government work,” Ric said, an old joke dredged from Eriks Cassul’s arsenal. But the man’s voice came out muffled against their earguards, distant and faraway as if heard underwater. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye and couldn’t help laughing. Her reply came just as distant, but she held up her index finger to clarify. “One more round?” She grinned again, slipping easily into their usual banter. “Unless you need a rest, of course.” It was like setting out bait for an animal, and he snapped it up without pause. Whatever Mag’s reasons for calling this competition today, he didn’t need to hear them. “It’s on,” Rictor said, already reaching for the stack of ammunition and reloading his rifle. |