He followed - and when he was handed a knife, he automatically weighed it in his palm, giving it a light toss, a swing, finding its balance. It was a practiced hand on the blade, even if the movements were a bit rusty. And the conclusion he came to was the same as hers: good enough, but not ideal. "I have lost my own weapons as well. For years, though, I have only carried two, but when I was as young as I appear to be now..."

There was even a faint laugh at that. "Throwing knives, a short blade, a sword. Whatever weapon I took from those who attacked me. I can use a bow, but it isn't my preferred weapon. My son was more capable than I. A born marksman."

Darim. Whose eyesight was still keen, even in his seventies. Darim, whose hair was now more white than black. (Why couldn't he have come - why couldn't he have arrived here-- But. No, that thought would only hurt.)