milliways_bar | (no subject)

(no subject)

The door opens, and River wanders in.

She looks to be in a reasonably good mood; at least, she's looking around the room, rather than staring at the floor or the air, even if her gaze doesn't quite settle quite normally. It's the tall boots today, rather than bare feet, under a loose floral skirt, and a couple of shirts in layers.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Then there's no danger in it. You'd not be shooting at living creatures. Will you do it?"

Roland is thinking: born gunslinger.

Stranger things have happened in Milliways.

Much stranger.

A very, very long pause.

She doesn't say yes.

She doesn't say no, either.

She looks up at him, back at the fire. Back at him.

Roland waits, calmly.

"He'd be mad."

It's not quite a no.

"If he knew, mayhap. No reason for him to know. And you're not where you came from."

"Shouldn't keep secrets." Pause. "Everyone does. Hides things. They think nobody knows. They're wrong."

She blows out a breath, still staring at the fire.

Then she stands up, and looks at him, head tilted.

After a long moment, she nods a little.

Roland stands, and goes to the bar.

Ten empty bottles in two bags.

He goes out the lake door, and waits.

She follows.

She casts a long look at the forest's edge, but no great black horse appears. She looks at the sky, the lake, and back at Roland.

Moon's out. That's a good thing.

It's a bit muddy as Roland sets up the bottles by the lake's shore. Five of them. He's got plans for the others.

He carries the second bag back over to River, and sets it down out of the way.

Slowly, he removes his gun from its holster, and takes one of the bullets out. Five left.

He holds it out to her, butt first. "Take a moment. Get used to the weight. Learn what you need to learn. Might be different from the ones you've seen. Ask questions, if you've need."

Roland is handing over one of the guns of his father. He's serious. Deadly serious.

She takes it from him carefully, curling her fingers around the grip. The barrel points out vaguely over the lake, with no particular target.

She looks at it, for a while. Touches the hammer with her other hand, gently, as if feeling the texture of it.

"Old," she says softly. She looks at him. "Manual."

Roland nods. "Very old, yar. You know how to work it?"

She ghosts her fingers along the chamber, over the barrel. She watches it curiously, as if it's a branch, or an animal. Anything to be investigated.

Then she lets her free hand drop, and turns a little sideways. Straightens her arm, points the gun towards the bottles, and cocks it with her thumb.

Roland steps back.

Quietly: "Shoot, then."

She looks at the bottles. Intently. Her eyes are wide, gaze sharp.

"Can't look."

Then she closes her eyes.

"Can't look."

Bang. One.

The recoil startles her a little, and she opens her eyes to scowl at the gun. Another sweeping glance, and she closes them again.

"Can't--"

Bang.

Bang.

"--look."

Bang. Almost a miss; the very top of the bottle explodes, and the bottle rocks, slowly tilts, falls over as--

Bang. That hit's solid.

She opens her eyes, and smiles at him. Sweet and cheerful and a little proud.

And Roland's smile -- not sweet. Maybe cheerful, if you looked hard enough. Proud, and impressed, and a bit wondering.

"It is well." A pause. "Do you always shoot such?"

Her arm drops to her side, gun pointing at the ground.

She looks out at the lake, and doesn't answer.

He studies her for a moment.

Quietly: "I'd have you do another thing, River. Would you shoot again?"

She looks back at him.

After a moment, she nods a little.

He removes five bullets from his belt, holds them out to her. "Reload, then."

She switches the gun to her left hand. She holds out her right hand, and lets him drop the bullets into it.

It takes some fumbling and some figuring out, in the chilly moonlight, but eventually she manages to load them all and pop the cylinder back into place.

Roland picks up the other bag. "Moving target, now. Watch carefully."

He hunkers, and keeps the bag open.

His hands are fast.

One-two-three-four-five. He flings them all high in the air, and away so that the glass will not break on them, and watches.

Her eyes go wide and startled.

An instant's hesitation -- too short for any but a gunslinger's eyes to see, maybe, but Roland will know. Then her hand moves in a blur, one-two-three-four-and-fiveatthelastsecond. She doesn't know to fan the hammer; she does it with the thumb of the same hand.

Four bottles explode. One crashes to the ground, splintering on a rock. She scowls at it.

Roland knows.

But it doesn't matter.

He straightens.

And quietly: "Very well done." A pause. "First time using a gun like that? With a hammer you must pull back, after each shot?"

"Old," she tells the gun quietly. "Not current technology." She reaches out as if to run her fingers along the barrel again, and then pulls them back before they touch. "Hot."

Roland nods. "You say true." Pause. "Why'd you use the thumb, rather than fan the hammer with your other hand?"