Mountaineers Kadrell and Flinthammer sat on the roof of the Stoutlager Inn, watching the sky for the Headless Horseman. There had also been reports that the Horde had been flying over some settlements, throwing stink bombs. It hadn’t happened here, and if Captain Rugelfuss had anything to say about it, it wasn’t going to.

“Me neck hurts,” Ringo Flinthammer muttered, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.

Kadrell grunted non-noncommittally.

“Heard a rumor earlier,” Ringo continued, “Th’ mountaineers are gonna start bein’ trained to shoot at point-blank range.”

“Say what?” Kadrell snapped. It was the first time he’d spoken in hours.

“Instead o’ smackin’ someone with an axe or a polearm or a staff or what have ye, we’ll just, ye know — shoot ’em.”

“What about all th’ melee training we’ve had?”

“Nae time fer it any more. We’ll jus’ use our guns for all o’ that.”

“No Raptor Strike? No Wing Clip?”

“Seems not.”

“… good riddance.”