"I used to shoot'em," says Dean, standing on the edge of the clearing. He has his nicest flannel on, of all things, beard trimmed and hair combed, mouth set in a determined, if self-conscious line. Even now, with his sword in one hand and a perfectly willing teacher standing across from him, Dean feels like an impostor, an experienced but clumsy hunter playing at techniques far above him.

"To practice my aim," he says, nodding towards the leaves. "That was before bullets got scarce."