"I'll take you to the armory," the young werepanther led her down into the first basement level, down a long hall, and he turned to his left into a huge room where the walls were plastered with weapons and armor of all sorts. The weapons were deadly keen, and the armor was either heavy steel or archer's light leather. "Bron!" The young werepanther called, and at his call, a huge orange weretiger with one eye, a torn ear, and dressed in a blacksmith's attire, emerged.
"What, boy?" His voice was gravelly and made him sound like he was in a constantly bad mood.
"Our guest, here, is looking for a bow." With that, the panther left Heather to deal with the armorer.
"Bow, eh? You hardly look like you've ever shot one," the blacksmith snorted.