It’s been too long since she’s held a bow; felt the smooth, polished wood in her hands, the taughtness of the string, steadied herself (an old habit, back from when she used to breathe), and then aimed. Unable to make it a part of herself like her talons, it still feels like a remnant from the old days. Every other pull holds a bit of nostalgia and a reminder of her power - because fucking hell, those arrows can fly like never before.
Releasing the string with a twang, her current arrow zips through the air, quick and deadly and finds itself buried in the trunk of a tree. The end vibrates, waving back in forth like a false branch - or an erection, take your pick - and Wessex smirks to herself in satisfaction before reaching for another arrow and nocking it. For the moment, it remains pointed towards the ground while eagle-sharp eyes amble lazily along, taking the time to choose her next target.
Releasing the string with a twang, her current arrow zips through the air, quick and deadly and finds itself buried in the trunk of a tree. The end vibrates, waving back in forth like a false branch - or an erection, take your pick - and Wessex smirks to herself in satisfaction before reaching for another arrow and nocking it. For the moment, it remains pointed towards the ground while eagle-sharp eyes amble lazily along, taking the time to choose her next target.
