Not here, no. At the barricades, when there is a young man on the other end of the barrel, occasionally. He does regret what he had to do there, but there was nothing else to be done in the moment.

“Practice,” is all he says, with a slight shrug. “My father taught me some five years ago, when I was still at home. I doubt he intended me to put it to the use I did.” He settles in to reloading the musket again, intent on his task.