She can see this is a weapon, and she lifts it with the care and caution of someone well used to weapons of various sorts. This, though, is not a sword, not a shield. If it's close to anything she knows, it's closest to a crossbow, but that's never been her weapon of choice. Oh, she knows the basics of how to use a bow, perhaps, if only because that's the most basic of training, but she would never choose that over a sword, never choose distance over being in the thick of battle.

Aveline turns the gun over in her hands, lifts it, stares down its sights at the target. It's all wrong: the weight, the shape, power behind it, and she lowers it again without firing.

And she sighs. Somehow, she doubts this will ever feel right.