milliways_bar | (no subject)

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It may be getting dark out, but Sam sees no reason not to indulge in a bit of target practice anyway. He can see the targets well enough to get by, and the nice thing about a gift like his is he can be fairly certain, in a non-combat situation, of where his knives are going to end up.
(Of course, it also helps that Arcie's not hanging around and stealing the things when he thinks Sam's not paying attention.)
he's not avoiding conversation, per se, but the narration doesn't recommend sneaking up on him. Just in case.

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He was going to make a parkour run through the forest and outside grounds of the backyard tonight, target range included but...

Well. Sam's going to find Beauford patiently waiting and watching the man he played darts with throw knives at the targets mm'kay?

Sam's got a feeling he has company, but he doesn't stop just yet. The waning daylight's something he wants to milk for all it's worth; while he's still got excellent aim in the dark, it is in fact easier when he can see what he's doing.

"Remind me not to play darts against you again, I'll be stuck buying your drinks for months otherwise."

"Far be it from me to discourage someone from getting better," Sam says, as he lets his last knife fly. It sticks solidly near the center of the target.
"But if you'd prefer to avoid games in the future, that's up to you."

...He can't really tell if that's a challenge or not to his mere ability to throw a dart.

Well played Samalander, you may yet have your drinks paid for in the months to come.

"Well, then again, I did play you to a tie before...So maybe I do have a chance."

"One never knows, does one?"
It was more a statement of fact than anything; he knows damn well that's why Cata kept testing herself against him for so long. (She even nearly beat him once or twice!) But if it gets him free drinks, that's okay too.

"So is this a hobby? The knife-throwing?"

...He knows darn well it isn't but there is this polite pretense that must be kept up under these circumstances.

"It's more of a gift, really."
And a hobby. And part of the job description. It's complicated.

Histories and abilities are always complicated, particularly when you have more than one identity.

"...you mind if I get a run in before the light disappears? The target range is good for hurdles and I'd rather do it while there's enough daylight to spot a demon bunny easily."

"By all means."
...Demon rabbits, though? Is he going to have to be upset with Cata for not mentioning this before?

That all will depend on if Cata even knew about the fire-breathing and poisonous little buggers, won't it?

With Sam's projectiles no longer being a course hazard, Beauford shortly goes into a flat-out run towards the targets, vaulting over them in a series of different manuvers. Generally he's doing his best not to touch the ground between the targets and doing a fair job of it.

However, by the time he's well into it, the light has already faded and there's rustling in the bushes surrounding the target field.

The kid's exercise is interesting in itself, but not so distracting that Sam doesn't hear the rustling.
...O RLY. He makes his way over to the target that still has his knives in it, and begins pulling them out, casually. (...Casually to all appearances, anyway.)

Whatever it is, there's several of them, and they're moving around the target practice field.

He'll catch a glimpse of several reddish bodies with glowing red eyes in the underbrush. The demon rabbits know what this place is, it always smells of the things used to kill them.

However, it also almost always will have something there that they can eat. One isn't so patient and makes a break out of the bushes towards the one not paying any attention and just standing by one of the targets.

Sam's expression says: 'bitch, please.' Or it would, if his world had that turn of phrase.
It's not the best throw he's ever pulled off (that honor might have to go to the one that beheaded Mizzamir, even though that was about fifteen different kidns of sloppy itself); the rabbit's not dead instantly. But it will be soon enough, and now he knows what he's watching for.
Iiiiinteresting.

It's spitting out little spurts of flame in it's last convulsions, which is enough to break 'Beauford' out of his exercise trance and swear very softly.

The other demon rabbits in the bushes hiss and move about now, no point in hiding that they're here now after all.

"Oh this is just great. You see any green or black ones?"

"I don't believe so, no."
...They spurt flames. This had better not damage his knives; that would be quite disappointing.

"...red ones breathe fire, green ones have a venomous bite, black ones spit poison, just for reference." He's just going to be backing his way up to the Bar now.

Another form dashes out towards the fallen red one to grab up the body and start eating it.

"...you want your knife back?"

"That would be lovely, yes."
He's had it for a long time. It would be more than a little disappointing to lose it to a rabbit, even one as unusual as this.

...Yeh, he's unarmed and those things are nasty enough to make Xen wildlife reconsider their options for a meal.

"...we might have to kill almost all of this pack to get it back you realise."

And that?
That is a smirk that's frightened people off before. It might not have any effect on the rabbits, but that's beside the point.
"Oh, you say that like it's a problem."

"...Well it's a problem for me. Only one of us is armed." And if there's going to be a fight...part of him IS so itching badly for one, even if it's with the demon bunnies.

"Nothing you could improvise with?"
He might be convinced to lend a knife for the occasion, but he is damn well getting it back, if that happens.

...

There's some quick shuffling and yanking as Beauford removes his shoes and their laces most of the way out. Socks get stuffed into the backpocket and the laces get tied together.

They're...shoe-chuks.

Somewhere there is a ninja-turtle wondering why the heck he wants to giggle. He's not ON anything and he hasn't DONE anything...

"...sort of armed."

"Well, that's better than nothing."
He's already assessing the threat - but then, he has been since the first rustlings. That's definitely part of the job description.

"...should've brought that sword Zak got me." He mutters to himself as the rest of the swarm pour out, two or three at a time to fight over who gets to eat the fallen fire-breather.

Then they start swarming towards the two humans. Knives can't last forever.

Perhaps not, no, but as Sam doesn't have anything else, he's going to have to make them make do. Besides, it's not as though he has to throw them all the time.
And if the threat's this big, he'll hang onto them as long as he can.

A great many of them are finding themselves with broken necks, legs and ribs from the way Beauford is swinging his improvised weapon. Considering he just looks like he's flailing about and kicking the fire-breathing ones when possible.

Those that fall to either blade, boot or barefoot are quickly fought over and consumed by the rest. Is Sam keeping track of them, Beauford is just reacting.

He's keeping track enough, on a mostly subconscious level, to know that over half the pack is down.
And then he sees an opportunity to get his first knife back, and takes it.

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