Rhyfler Goor remembered when, in training camp, the drill yawdryl had showed them a Harlech rifle in weapon familiarization. The grizzled yawdryl had decried it as a royalist barge oar, a Coftyran tent pole, a Gwyntish barn beam, sneering at its sluggish firing rate and unwieldy weight. But now, the Toulmorese Rhyfler watched as his section’s designated marksquar was methodically picking off the crew of a Coftyran machinegun nest using a captured Harlech.
Goor wondered what else his drill yawdryl might have been wrong about.
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