(526) That... is wicked awesome. o___o
Ithiel is by Raze!
Ithiel's own wolf side was denied by omission or derided, depending on the dusky-furred hybrid's mood. He did not lie if directly asked, but did everything in his power to indicate otherwise. The only display of wolf in him, anyway, was his size -- and he was not alone in this. Myrika's lupus form and secui both, when she deigned to take them, were wolfish in their entirety. Ithiel, on the other hand, certainly resembled more of a coyote in his four-legged forms, albeit an oversized one. His features, too, were all coyote, though his ears did not possess quite the same largeness of Myrika's -- a fact he knew better than to propose to her directly, owing to her sensitivity. He understood women were not keen on commentary regarding their appearance, and thus strove to avoid it after a painful lesson from Myrika and a chiding from Kaena.
The dusky hybrid paused in his plucking to survey the weapons she retrieved from her pack. His crimson eyes roved over the two projectile weapons. They were simple, but simplicity could be deadly effective. His bow was not so complex a weapon -- and yet he preferred it to the crossbow. This latter was heavy, slower to reload, and altogether more clumsy a weapon. Though he had used them a time or two in Scintilla, the dust-colored canine certainly did not prefer them to his bow and arrow. The last weapon was taken from her with a widening of his eyes and a lifting of his brows. Ithiel ran a finger over the sharp blade of the sickle part and grunted his approval, handing the weapon back to her. He would very much like to see that last in action, especially -- it was an exotic sort of weapon, to be sure, and Ithiel thought thos weapons which were most widely used the most tested and true, but it was still a worthwhile pursuit if deadly.
He did not immediately return to his plucking but gazed thoughtfully at Willam, his head cocked to one side. That's a mean looking one, the last, he said. I would see them all in action. He'd seen a sling before, of course, but the dust-colored hybrid wanted to see just how skillful she was. Thus far, in his estimation, Willam undervalued herself and did not think highly enough of the skills she did possess. The moment of compliment and his interest over, he returned to the plucking, both ears pricking upward at her question. The bird has... oil, I guess, on the feathers. This helps the feathers fly, and keeps them in good order, I suppose. Once it's dead and the feathers separated, no more is produced. One has to touch them, of course, to cut and attach them to the arrow -- but it's best to minimize that touching as much as possible. He was glad to answer the question, for it was a sensible one -- it hadn't occurred to him not to touch the delicate parts of the feathers, and such had earned him a well-deserved rap on the hand.
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