Eren had cleared the big east field two days back, and now he stood in the middle of it with a folding table, eight shotguns, a rack of longbows, and about thirty elves who had no clue why he'd dragged them out of bed for it.
He'd pictured this going differently. Somewhere in the back of his head he'd been holding onto the old Earth story about elves, the one where every last one of them can put an arrow through a leaf at two hundred meters in a crosswind. Emily had killed that idea a long time ago and he'd just never let it die all the way. Now he was looking at the truth of it. Bakers. Farmers. A couple of weavers. A man who made barrels for a living. Good people, soft hands, and not one in ten of them had ever held a weapon that wasn't a kitchen knife.
