- NATE -
Why you don't got any questions?
How you know that this is real?
How you know that this is real?
Nate winces as his shot hits low, as Melita tells him exactly how ineffective the shot was. "Good thing I'm still learning then, right?" It's a small consolation, an attempt at humour, stymied by the reality described, when this is supposed to be an effective defence for him. "I'll aim higher next time." While he still has the chance to learn.
The electric arrow is more than impressive, the crackling drawing Nate's eye long before it is actually released, the storm literally held in Melita's hands, ready to unleashed on some unsuspecting enemy, some opponent who's misstepped worse than they would ever be able to anticipate. "I'll get it." Nate promises, rising to the challenge, or at least taking his best running leap at it. "I'll just do exactly as you do." The tail end of his words is nearly cut off by snap of her arrow, the crackling as it flew through the air and landed firmly in the dummy.
Which meant it was his turn. All he could do was his best, use the basics he'd been taught and hope that they could be enough. Nate steps into position, takes aim, takes his breath, and aims just a touch higher than he thinks he needs to. Then, he releases it, and watches, breath held, for all the good it does. The arrow still strikes low, but it's within the painted target, thunking into a blackened knot of wood and holding fast.
The electric arrow is more than impressive, the crackling drawing Nate's eye long before it is actually released, the storm literally held in Melita's hands, ready to unleashed on some unsuspecting enemy, some opponent who's misstepped worse than they would ever be able to anticipate. "I'll get it." Nate promises, rising to the challenge, or at least taking his best running leap at it. "I'll just do exactly as you do." The tail end of his words is nearly cut off by snap of her arrow, the crackling as it flew through the air and landed firmly in the dummy.
Which meant it was his turn. All he could do was his best, use the basics he'd been taught and hope that they could be enough. Nate steps into position, takes aim, takes his breath, and aims just a touch higher than he thinks he needs to. Then, he releases it, and watches, breath held, for all the good it does. The arrow still strikes low, but it's within the painted target, thunking into a blackened knot of wood and holding fast.
I am feeling such oppression
You can't tell me how to feel
You can't tell me how to feel
