Like some child possessed, the beast howls in my veins
Melita wouldn’t know what it was like to not practice something – too much fire in her blood, in her veins, pulsing, pervading, until the restless energy could no longer be contained. She often reached for too many skies at once, but the youth had never been the sort of individual to remain listless and languid in her trainings. There’d always been danger, treachery, a slinking, primordial threat in the distance, and since her childhood she’d made certain she was well versed in various weaponry, tactics, and audacity. It had served her well, between monsters, creatures, and other moments, things, yet to come.
So she snorted at his insinuation, not overly impressed with the admission, and then watched again – already seeing a critical error as the arrow shot forward. Sure enough, it bounded along the fringes of the target, too low, too right. “You’re aiming from the front of your bow.” A common mistake, it would explain the drifting, and the girl stepped forward again, as Fangorn (with nothing else to do), went to retrieve the armament.
“With your eye, and hopefully the good one.” She winked, raising her bow aloft. “Watch.” The girl lined herself up with the goal again – snagging at one of her arrows along her quiver, notching it once more, and then lifting, ensuring that her aim was drawn from her gaze, and not the weapon itself. “Look straight ahead. See your goal.” A breath taken – a cool smirk embedding its way through her mouth. “Pretend it’s an enemy. Who would you want to destroy?” Then she released – not telling whom her imagined adversary was – as it snapped and zoomed, hitting the upper portion of the dummy this time; as if it were a throat, a neck, a nape.
Her grin deepened as she turned back toward him, and nodded. Fangorn brought forward the arrow, grumbling towards Nate, before settling back to his position along the grass. “Again.”
So she snorted at his insinuation, not overly impressed with the admission, and then watched again – already seeing a critical error as the arrow shot forward. Sure enough, it bounded along the fringes of the target, too low, too right. “You’re aiming from the front of your bow.” A common mistake, it would explain the drifting, and the girl stepped forward again, as Fangorn (with nothing else to do), went to retrieve the armament.
“With your eye, and hopefully the good one.” She winked, raising her bow aloft. “Watch.” The girl lined herself up with the goal again – snagging at one of her arrows along her quiver, notching it once more, and then lifting, ensuring that her aim was drawn from her gaze, and not the weapon itself. “Look straight ahead. See your goal.” A breath taken – a cool smirk embedding its way through her mouth. “Pretend it’s an enemy. Who would you want to destroy?” Then she released – not telling whom her imagined adversary was – as it snapped and zoomed, hitting the upper portion of the dummy this time; as if it were a throat, a neck, a nape.
Her grin deepened as she turned back toward him, and nodded. Fangorn brought forward the arrow, grumbling towards Nate, before settling back to his position along the grass. “Again.”
Melita
