His crown lit up the way as he moved slowly
Oh, so the winner picks the punishment, eh? You smirk at this, waggling your eyebrows suggestively as she comes to snatch the arrow away, plucking it off your fingers and putting it to her bow. Damned impressive already, and when she follows through with a fluid pull of the string and a far better shot than you could manage... well. Let's not beat around the bush: you're impressed, and it shows clearly on your face.
Chuckling at the suggestion the game is rigged, you take the bow and an arrow from her, looking them both over curiously. Looks easy enough, you think, just knock the thing and pull the string and away she goes. Vai certainly made it look like the simplest thing in the world. No way it'll go wrong.
You knock the arrow. You pull it back. And you let go and watch as it flies away in entirely the wrong direction, missing the bullseye by a solid foot and vanishing into the brush. Well, fuck.
With an embarrassed half-laugh-half-grumble and a flush in your face you offer back the bow. Injury to insult, your arm is already aching in protest, because it turns out pulling that arrow was kind of a lot of work for your fucked-up delt.
Rubbing the place where your long sleeves cover the old wound you continue grumbling as you go in search of the errant arrow, muttering something mock-disgruntled about damned rigged contests and leaves in my eyes.
Chuckling at the suggestion the game is rigged, you take the bow and an arrow from her, looking them both over curiously. Looks easy enough, you think, just knock the thing and pull the string and away she goes. Vai certainly made it look like the simplest thing in the world. No way it'll go wrong.
You knock the arrow. You pull it back. And you let go and watch as it flies away in entirely the wrong direction, missing the bullseye by a solid foot and vanishing into the brush. Well, fuck.
With an embarrassed half-laugh-half-grumble and a flush in your face you offer back the bow. Injury to insult, your arm is already aching in protest, because it turns out pulling that arrow was kind of a lot of work for your fucked-up delt.
Rubbing the place where your long sleeves cover the old wound you continue grumbling as you go in search of the errant arrow, muttering something mock-disgruntled about damned rigged contests and leaves in my eyes.
past the wondering eyes of the ones that were left behind
zephyr
