“A Glock! You can’t go wrong with a Glock.” The Druid said, showing off the piece with pride while aiming it in the air. The gathered council raised a brow with the elf and the dwarf stepping back. “And… what does it do?”

“It’s like a self-firing bow: your accuracy determines if you hit or miss. But,” he ticked a button, releasing the mag, holding it. “It needs ammunition. I’ve got twelve crates of mags or ‘clips’ of ammunition, but I could only get the one gun. I’ve got the specs, so you can forge it, but you’re going to need magnesium or some kind of blasting powder the orcs use.” The Druid explain. The elf purses his lips as the wizard facepalmed.

“Gary, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“What the fuck are you thinking? That technology won’t be made for thousands of years and you think it funny to bring back a Glock from the future?!” The wizard roared. “Next time, get a nuke and blow us all to the afterlife, why don’t you?!”