One sentence. One sentence was all it took to take Rook from almost blindingly angry to overwhelmed by hurt. He hadn't stopped to figure out just which part of the insinuation hurt the worst, but then it didn't really matter. It had been dished out with the intention to cause harm, and cause harm it did. So Rook left his house and went to the training grounds to find some solace in...something, whatever familiar he could get.
Starting with arrows and a crossbow hadn't yielded the results he was looking for, and neither had switching to a compound bow, but firing a gun, that he would would work. His position dictated he use arrows more than a firearm, but he'd been the TA for that position too, and he'd never really lost his gift for aim. There was something cathartic about shooting a target, too. Not like he was shooting the object of his hurt and anger, that was more violent than Rook ever allowed himself to become, but after the 10th shot he started to feel it in his hands and wrists, the kickback just enough pressure on his joints and muscles to make him sore from repetition.
When Dax approached, he felt his presence rather than heard it through the earplugs, removing them just in time to hear his words. "I don't really want to talk about it, and my aim is always this good," he replied gruffly, as though that meant something; Rook never really wanted to talk about anything important, especially not the things bothering him. Oh he could complain for days about trivial matters, but the things that actually mattered? Not a chance.