Wheel smiled and stood, his hands swinging freely at his sides. He was relaxed. A dancer would have envied his movements. He was stiff from suppressed rage so often that one would be forgiven for forgetting with the slightly entrancing grace he moved with. He wore his (slightly splintered) boots, canvas trousers, and a wide belt that was stuffed with pistols and daggers. He picked his teeth with a stiletto as he spoke, tiny speckles of red dashed it's way across his teeth, only for him to occasionally spit on the dew damp turf to clear his mouth. The pine forest watched behind him, a curious spectator. Songbirds Hana couldn't identify warbled in the trees.

"Alright. To start, we'll work on marksmanship. There are muskets and pistols in those chests there," he nodded, "Take a rifle and a pistol, along with shot and powder, and come with me." He waited with barely constrained patience, and strode off to the firing range. Bullseyes made of painted canvas and woodscraps were spaced evenly. "Begin."