His crown lit up the way as he moved slowly
"I don't need luck. I've got skill." It is very obvious that you do not have skill and you do need luck, but nothing is going to win this competition for you so you might as well live it up. With remarkable showmanship you take the bow back, bowing to Vai before knocking the arrow (Right handed, again, since that seems to work best) and letting the thing fly.
And by fly, I do mean fall. Somehowthanks natural 1 instead of firing an arrow you just fucking fumble, and the thing drops down to strike you on your foot before landing harmlessly on the grass. This would be fine, were it not for the reason: something in your injured arm pulls a way it's not supposed to, the never-healed muscle and exposed nerves twanging in a chorus of delicious agony underneath your brace.
"Vi fuck it son of a cunt!" Dropping the bow, you raise your left hand to your right arm, face scrunched up in pain. On a scale you'd probably call yourself a 10; realistically it's more of a 7, but fuck if that isn't enough. Gritting your teeth and blinking back tears, you try to catch your breath. "Stupid fucking arm," you hiss, stomping repeatedly in a misguided attempt to channel your pain into the ground below you.
Beneath your foot, the arrow snaps. Oops.
And by fly, I do mean fall. Somehow
"Vi fuck it son of a cunt!" Dropping the bow, you raise your left hand to your right arm, face scrunched up in pain. On a scale you'd probably call yourself a 10; realistically it's more of a 7, but fuck if that isn't enough. Gritting your teeth and blinking back tears, you try to catch your breath. "Stupid fucking arm," you hiss, stomping repeatedly in a misguided attempt to channel your pain into the ground below you.
Beneath your foot, the arrow snaps. Oops.
past the wondering eyes of the ones that were left behind
zephyr
