Raffy the Sparrowhawk
The Sparrowhawk remains concealed within his nest. He has plugged the powderhorn again and simply drops it, trusting its shoulder strap to keep it close to hand. No sooner is it gone than the pouch of shot is in his hand. With his teeth he tears open a moderately sized paper packet and upends it over the muzzle of his gun. Dozens of lead balls skitter down. The wide, bell-like design of the blunderbuss makes it a simple matter to get the shot in quickly and easily.
As always, he admires the cheap, low-grade ammunition as it falls into the gun. The sign of truly bad shot (such as this) is improper filing. Fresh lead balls come out of their clay mould with a little line around them caused by the seam in the mould itself. A good metallurge will file off the line, leaving a smooth spherical shot. But this was cheap shot with the lines still on - the imperfections are terrible for any kind of precise gun, but the 'buss is anything
Raffy is sure that the lines increase the size and pain of the wounds the balls cause. They cause the flesh to rip more and the blood to come out faster. Plus, every time he relieves himself he makes sure to run his unwashed hands through a pouch of shot. He grins as he thinks about the filthy, bleeding Gor just outside the wagon.