[Salone]

Lev slung low to the ground, stalking as if he were moving through tall grass. He moved methodically, retracing their movement back to their original stopping point in a slowly paced beeline. Noticing the ridge, he decided to take a look down below.

Dropping to his stomach, he crawled along the ground until he came to the ledge. The rocky terrain scratched against him, cutting him in places. No matter though. His eyes scanned the several dozen feet below him, instantly picking up two figures. One the man from before, the one who had attempted to replace him. The one who had succeeded. And a girl! It must be the one!

He brought his rifle up, taking aim down the ancient sights. He moved the rear sight up slightly, compensating for the distance. Index finger rested on the trigger, ready to fire. He steadied his rifle on the man. He would want to hear words out of her mouth before he gutted it.

Lev.

The rifle. The Mosin-Nagant. He had stared down those sights for years. He had held that rifle as a boy. His non-father had given it to him, him alone out of the seven other children his mother had been forced to birth before she died. At first he hated it, the rifle hurt him. But it became his companion, closest guarded friend. Over the years it had become so much more. An oar, a club, a tent pole. Fishing rod, a spear. Nearly firewood one particularly ugly winter. It had saved his life, nearly ended it, and taken the lives of hundreds of others. He had been taught to clean it. To respect it. The rifle was his life. More accurately, his way of life. But it had destroyed others. Countless others.

It is not her, Lev.

He hovered the sights over the man, preparing to fire. He had found a scope once. It was an honor, a blessed gift to have such a thing. It had taken him a long time to sight the precious accessory to his rifle. The first time it saw combat it took a bullet directly to the lens. Glass and lead had pelted Lev's face, scarring him for years. From then on he never mounted another. A blessed gift wasted by him meant he would never deserve another.

LEV.

Lev was suddenly a whirlwind of scrambling limbs as he tumbled over the ledge. A gust of wind had upset him enough that in his distracted state he failed to hold himself down. For a brief moment, he fell free. Then he caught the jagged rocks jutting out from the cliff face as he tumbled down. Cutting, breaking. smashing. His body was being beaten apart. But he clung still to his rifle. They would break together.

A sudden snap jerked him violently. He came to a stop, arms outstretched above him while his legs dangled beneath. About thirty feet from the ground he had came to a halt. Disoriented and in great pain, it took him a moment to realize why. He lifted his head upwards.

His rifle, the long beast that it was, had caught itself between two rocks. The aged steel and wood was somehow able to stand his weight, digging against the rock to hold him in place.

"Where is your infinite wisdom now?!"

Lev tried to shout, but it came out as a hoarse moan. Blood trickled down his body, nasty gashes spurting the red liquid mixed with the rocks and dirt that had caused them. Working his way closer to the rock face, he unhinged his rifle from the rock. He began to slowly make his way down the rock face while trying to size up his two former targets, who had obviously noticed him by now. In his current state though, he was unsure if they could administer more pain to his body than he was already experiencing.