Scargot, sat at his desk in a cabin closing his book and leaving it on the table in front of him, groaning in frustration. Trying to decipher it whatever the hell Elder Bassoon was saying was a pain in the ass. His writings were one of the only things he managed to take with him when Porunga whisked everyone away. The Elder sure loved to be old-fashioned, even to a detriment. The series of events he describes in the texts occurred approximately 1000 years ago. Bassoon was old. Very old. Because of that, his Namekian was very archaic and had very unusual syntax. It required a tremendous mental load to engage in the readings.

Having been at this for two hours now, even he needed a break. The Namekian looked down to his right, seeing his bow and quiver leaning against the table. The Sun was out and birds were chirping. Now was a good time to go and shoot a few targets. Standing up from his seat and heading out front, there would be a there were would be three targets lined up next to each other 150 meters across from his front door. He calmed himself, taking a deep breath and entered an almost meditative state as he focused and took an archer’s stance and drew back his bow, focusing on the middle target.

WC: 225