[ there’s a soft noise of approval, at the compliment, before roy makes his way over to the dummy, sliding his hands into his pockets as he peers down at the wreckage of where the dummy once was. It seems to be taking a moment or two to replicate itself; apparently, whatever astoria’s magic is doesn’t necessarily regenerate dummies at a very fast growth rate. ]

My master used to tell me that I was a hopeless idiot, so know the compliment is well taken.

[ in a dry tone, but roy is amused at the notion of being called a master. berthold hawkeye is rolling in his grave. ]

I’m surprised that combustion is the most excelled of arts; not hitting something is far harder than blowing it up.