Daryl lets out a croaking sort of hum, an almost entirely unvoiced affirmative. "They're a pain in the ass."

He hands her the quiver filled with broadhead arrows. To Daryl, they always looked like the kind of things you were supposed to shoot into whales a hundred years ago, except, you know, smaller. He hasn't shared this opinion since he was six and roundly mocked for the comparison-- he'd laughed along with them, unsure why it was funny. In truth, he still is.

"Heavier-- you're gonna wanna aim higher."