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	Jack lowered his duffel to the floor.

‘Take your time,’ said Torn, folding his arms while he remained standing by the cupola, ‘All my range weapons are over there.’ 

Jack was already on rout to where Torn had nodded in reference. Half of one wall was dedicated to shelves and racks sporting various kinds of bows, crossbow-like weapons, slingshots, and other projectile equipment Jack wasn’t entirely sure about. 

‘You take me for a range man?’ 

‘Of course,’ Torn announced a small amused snort, ‘I know the look.’ 

‘Jack glanced over his shoulder at the man. ‘The look?’ 

‘Close contact isn’t for all of us.’ Torn eyeballed Jack up and down, making it clear he didn’t think much of his clothing. Jack’s clothes may not have been any fashion Torn was used to viewing, but it was obvious they hadn’t seen much action. Torn would have likely been hard pressed to find anyone with clothes as clean as Jack’s were. Perks of living in the 20th century. Of course, Jack knew it wouldn’t be long before this primitive world stripped away his clean and crisp appearance. 

 ‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Jack, as he reached out and ran his forefinger along the curve of a metallic bow. He was no metallurgist, but then he didn’t need to be one to know that metal flexible enough it craft a bow wasn’t easy to come by, especially in this era. The metal was cool to the touch, like other metal, but it was grained, seemingly impure, yet the blue-tinted grains seemed to have a type of random yet set pattern to them. It reminded Jack of weapons made of Damascus steel he had seen once on display in one of Earth’s museums. ‘What sort of metal is this, Torn?’ 

Instead of directly answering the question, Torn let Jack know just how ignorant the question was by asking his own question in response:

‘What far away land are you from, Jack?’