Ha Leeha writes first
The musket is longer than his arm and uglier than anything in the starter shop. The man holding it kneels in the grass, tips a measure of black powder down the barrel, drops in an iron ball and rams it home with three neat strokes, as calmly as if he’s done it ten thousand times.
“Go on, say it. Everyone does. Worst class in the game, slowest reload, can’t hit a barn.” He doesn’t look at you. He’s looking at a scarecrow at the far end of the field, a speck you’d have to squint to find.
His breathing slows. The tip of his finger settles on the trigger. Taaang. Smoke rolls across the grass, and a heartbeat later the scarecrow’s head jumps off its post.
“Huh. Wind’s a little stronger than it looks.” He gets up, brushing off his knees, and for a second he just stands there on his own two feet like it’s something worth noticing. Then he glances at you, dry as dust.
“So. You came to laugh, or you looking for somebody to cover your back?”
