Wric bends down at the mention of archery. Taking hold of his older-styled bow craved out of a wood native to his home land having a white look to it rather than traditional brown. He settles it over his shoulder, and then grabs the quiver underneath his bed. Strapping it over his shoulder with the brown strap that held adjacent mahogany bag. "If you even land five arrows.. I'll be surprised." Wric says in playful jest. He wants to say so much more, but he knows better. Just opting to drop it.