Rock-it Crossbow

Log Info

• Title: Rock-It Crossbow

• Emitter: Warrick

• Characters: Warrick, Crik

• Place: Southern Banks of Tornmawr

Southern Banks of Tornmawr, Midday

A rock gets tossed into the lazy river with a muted >ker-thunk<. "Too rough." A middle aged human man in a grey overcoat picks up a half full bucket of stones, boots crunching against the bank as a longsword clanks on his hip and a large crossbow clacks on his back, a quiver of bolts cinched taut on his other hip.

The bright and blue sky is marred by the brisk winds above, bringing a chill to the air. The bank a refuge from the wind, as the streets were subject to the rough breeze.

He stops once more, surprised by something, as he kneels down to pluck a broken arrow out of the river bank. "... hmm..." he hums, looking up to the bridge for a moment before turning the shaft over in his hand.

A stone suddenly skips across the water. Plop. Plop. Several times it goes, before it seems to go on forever - and then it is gone down under the surface.

A bundle of rags greets the man in the long overcoat then - with a black beak staring up, unblinking. There wasn't a word that was said.

Just staring. And a sudden croak from Crik's throat.

Warrick runs a thumb over the fletching. "... novice shot. A greenhorn?" he murmurs before the skipping stone draws his attention. Watching it go, go, go...

He retraces the path, seeing who could have pitched such a- bird. Croak. Warrick blinks. "... did you throw that?" he asks once he's no longer flat footed from the strangeness. ".. C... rik. Crik, right?"

"Crik." The bundle of clothes confirms - before there is a sudden shuffle of garments and the corvid egalrin straightens to his full height, hands on his hips.

"Warrick." There's a sudden notebook pulled out and thumbed open, as Crik double checks something, before he puts it aside. "I did. To see where the current flows." There's a strong stare, then his head drops down to look at the broken arrow. "Are we investigating a murder?"

Warrick gives a small nod in confirmation as well, him watching the hunched bird rise to their full. There's a little mote of confusion that rests on his visage from the hard stare, one that requires him to put the bucket of smooth rocks down. "Uh... that's now how rocks- nevermind," he sighs, rubbing his face.

He shakes his head, showing the missile. "No. I think this is a stray shot. Either washed down river or a bad training shot from the festival grounds nearby. See the fletching? It's all snapped on this side. An archer gripped it wrong, broke the fletching," he explains. Just found it, I'm collecting rocks to go rock skipping later."

A heavier sigh escapes him. "To take my mind off that mess we went in. You faired well, I think. I was stuck most of the time and couldn't see anything."

Crik looks at the arrow, tilting his head either way. Finally, he pulls out a small crossbow from under his cloaks - luckily unloaded. "Or someone panicked, had to load a crossbow with an arrow instead of a bolt, and the assassination went off the mark." He explains, gesturing at the mechanism that would snap off the fletching. Beak hefts up.

At the other's admission, Crik visibly looks confused - but then he carefully steps over and pats the man on the side. "I grew up in dark places. Your eyes are poor." He glances down, then glances up, before finally he glances down. "But feet are quick. That is the important thing." Glance back up. "When running away from the terrors down below." The corvid holds his beak open.

Warrick's confusion doubles at Crik's explanation, him looking down at the crossbow. But a moment after, it cracks to a chuckle. Offering a hand in a nonverbal ask to look at the crossbow. "A Khazad philosopher named Occam once said 'the simpler of two explanations for something is usually the true one'. But- you can jam an arrow in a hand crossbow. But it will go wild instead of destroying the arrow in the chamber. Bonus points for the good idea."

The pat on the side gets that confusion to come back. "Well, yes, compared to yours, Egalrin make some of the best scouts," he mentions before shifting in his boots. "I suppose. Getting out of there from whatever the hell that worm was far more important than hitting some lizards. You were... quite efficient in that bout."

Crik looks at the hand, before after some reluctance, parts with the small crossbow. It was extremely functional and plain, and the wood was already cracking, the black paint long gone. It had a large ring at the end. "Unless the arrow was bad, the shooter forceful, and Occam was a liar." The corvid offers instead. "Equals to murder." Beak opens.

Hand goes down to his hips in a wide-footed stance - it was almost as if Crik was attempting to be one of those upstanding citizens one sees guarding the gates. "Cave worm. Devour stones. Dig too deep, and one must tread the same." He flips _another_ notebook open and looks down at it. "Or tread differently?" Snap shut, and he puts it aside.

"Not efficient enough. Should have brought more bombs. We got seen." Then he points at Warrick's face. "Never trust eyes down below, trust your instincts."

Warrick chuffs. "Lot of ifs. You're funny," he faintly smiles, casting the bird an amused glance before turning the crossbow over in his hand. His brow furrow. "... you really shoot a lot of stuff out of here that's not meant to be shot out of this. I'm... genuinely surprised this hasn't folded in on itself. Be careful with it. It might destroy itself soon if you don't replace the wood."

He raises a brow at Crik's stance. "I figured it was something like that, but I've only ever seen worms...--" he looks off to the side, shakes his head, and offers the crossbow back, "-once a while back. Tore through the earth. I think it matters not how you tread, just that you're treading."

He goes a little cross eyed from a notebook being flipped out, then being pointed at. "Wouldn't bombs have made the worm come sooner? And... what if my eyes are my instincts?" he says slowly. "Can't shoot without seeing something."

GAME: Crik rolls weapon2: (16)+7: 23

"Ifs are dark clouds until certainty casts them aside." Crik replies, as he takes his crossbow back. He looks at the battered weapon, with its grey weather worn wood and its stripped black paint. To be fair, he was too. "It lives to tell long tales."

With another sudden flip of his cloak and motion, Crik soon reappears with a handful of those smooth stones. "Delve deep in archeological digs often?" His beak opens. "Where? Are there more of them around here?"

Right in front of Warrick's eyes, Crik somehow finangles the stone into the groove and secures it in place for his crossbow. "Hmm. Maybe the bombs would have. Interesting." The corvid admits as he stretches his hand out towards the river. He didn't look where he was aiming. "Eyes do tell lies. Ever walk behind a stranger who then turns out to be the person you were looking for all along?"

The egalrin then fires his crossbow and... amazingly, his contraption only let out a really mean sound, before the stone solidly hits the water and sinks. "... higher up, do you think?" He lets out, as he looks down at the crossbow.

"There is some merit in a weapon that remains reliable, I've had this one for quite some time," Warrick mentions, patting the stock of the large crossbow strapped to his back. "Just don't want those long tales to stop soon is all."

All the erratic movement confuses the man once more, a hand twitching. He squints at the loading of irregular ammo. And-- He looks down where Crik is aiming, a scowl on his face. "Yes, I have quite some time when I was in the Guard."

But he turns to Crik, a tired frown on his face. "Higher up and /look/ where you're aiming. We're in the city. Sith-makari come out of the rivers, random boats," he sighs. "I get what you mean though."

Crik holds up the crossbow. "I thought it would slip like the last time." The corvid pauses, looking up at Warrick. "Slip like a skip stone." Beak opens. After a moment, there's a faint 'crik' sound and he shuts up his beak.

The egalrin then looks around the other man at the crossbow, eyeing it up and down. "Big. Powerful. Blunt statement." He hoists his black eyes up. "You do not seem the person to put value in weapons, so why this one?"

Warrick huffs quietly, shaking his head with a faint chuckle. "And this is why you don't put things in the crossbow that aren't meant to go in there. Consistency."

It's a large crossbow on his back, with dings and scrapes from wear and tear, but is very well kept. It has a few modifications to load bolts in faster, as well as several strap points to hold, load, and fire it from the hip. As seen before. Faint runes along the limbs glimmer in the light. Crik's statement gets surprise to flash across Warrick face. "Weapons have value, as they are tools. Tools need be reliable. I know I throw them on the ground, but I needed a different tool and fast." He nods to his crossbow, unshouldering it and holding it out to Crik to examine. "It is big and powerful. It's why I use it. Can punch through platemail."

Crik points back towards the broken arrow. "Consistency." More proof that it was murder, clearly.

"Practical. Values tools, but not enough over their survival." The corvid reaches out with his hands to take hold of the crossbow, giving it a curious look over. "Modified to function. Experience." The weapon is raised, then lowered in slow motions. "Believes in few strong tools. Shrewd."

The crossbow is lowered and the fold of the corvid's cloak falls over it. Beak looks up. "A shrewd, experienced soldier is willing to put a lot of coin on one weapon." A pause. "Attachment?"

Warrick rolls his eyes at the arrow, but his listens to the corvid as they take the heavy crossbow. And it was, indeed, heavy. Bulky. "When others have magic and enemies can shoot literal goo at you to glue you, you have to be shrewd. Can't be any other way."

The egalrin gets a dead stare. He pulls a hand back, one of the straps of the crossbow going taut under the cloak. Yes, he's still holding onto it. "I've seen that trick way too many times in my years," he warns. "But- yes. Have to. Again, others use magic. What do I have? Tools. And perhaps some attachment. That was my job in the guard. Arbalestier."

The cloak shifts again and there's bit of tug and play - but a bulky crossbow was not high on Crik's agenda. So instead of going through with his plan of detaching and attaching the strap which he definitely was not about to do, he holds the crossbow back. "There is no trick. The trick is to get away with it." Beak opens.

Instead, Crik pulls out one of his various belts and stretches it out. "Tool for every situation." It had knives, vials, some round orbs, herbs. Tiny tools. "... I should find acid for the goo." He says then, folding his arms under his cloak.

"Arbalestier and a guard. Retiring to become an explorer." The dark corvid's beak opens again. "Usually it is the other way around."

Warrick's shoulders lax as the weapon is handed back hale. He does a brief check to ensure no rock was slotted in before looping it over his shoulder. "That'd be some trick. A trick that would get you arrested pretty fast," he deadpans before breaking and giving a little chuckle.

And then he sees The Belt. "... that is impressive," he admits, brows raised. "I have similar in a bunch of pouches. The right alchemical item in the right place makes a big difference."

He shifts a bit, glancing off to the side. "Wasn't by choice. But here we are." There's a beat of silence before he ducks down to pick up his bucket. "I need to find more skipping stones. Do you want to help, or have you just been stealing mine?"

Crik looks at Warrick for a long time - before he bops his head down and up. There's more ruffling inside his cloaks, before he adopts his more typical hunched over position. He gestures for the other man to lead away, tail bopping behind him.

"... why are we hunting for skipping stones, anyway?"

Warrick smiles lightly. "... because its fun."

-End Scene-