hed

fisticuffs, guns, ’tis everything, anything that requires aiming.” He spread his hands. “The last time it happened, we were picking slugs out of the walls for a fortnight, and poor Conal still hasn’t regrown the hair Tannim scorched from his scalp.”
Conal, a few feet away, looked up at the sound of his name, and scowled from under the brim of his baseball cap. Sam recalled now that the Sidhe-mechanic had looked rather odd when he’d removed the cap to scratch his head. He’d had a swath about two inches wide shaved from front to back, in a kind of reverse Mohawk. Sam had wondered at the time if it was some sort of new fashion—many of the younger elves had taken to punk and cutting-edge clothing with a glee unmatched by any human over eighteen. Now he knew better, at least in Conal’s case.
“A near-miss,” Keighvin continued, “and damned lucky it wasn’t nearer than it was. Eh. Poor lad never was very sharp with a gun anyway.” He shook his head again. “Wish we could get that glittery friend of his with the odd name to magic him up some endurance, but I fear that’s asking for a miracle. He hasna been the same since he got that leg of his chewed on.”
That explains the limp. Sam thought about asking about just what had been responsible for that injury, saw Keighvin’s face, and decided against it. There are some things