Caressing Fingers and Hard Bows
34th Day of Winter, 513 A.V.
The tension in his arm was killing him. Grimacing slightly as his muscles screamed in anger, the man held his position for a tick longer; determined to not let physical pain get the best of him. Minimal quakes ran up and down his bent arm; the muscles shaking slightly as they fought the tight bowstring that yearned to be released. His fingers restlessly shook against the feathered tip, causing the arrow to shake slightly as well. It really wasn’t the best conditions for the man to take his shot, but the hunter was determined to defeat his mind and its pleading for him to put it out of its misery. Regardless of the fact that it was his body that was in pain, Wingard knew that pain was simply a sensation and that if he was truly a warrior, he would easily be able to overcome its dominating presence by willpower alone.
Grinding his teeth together, he let a ragged breath whistle through them. ’Concentrate,’ he thought, attempting to pull his mind away from the pain. Staring down at the evenly painted target before him, the man channeled his energies into that specific being, ’Just focus on the target.’ Tuning out the quivering sensations that were singing solos up and down his arm, Wingard looked at the target that lay 15 feet away from him. Taking another steady, deep breath, he let it out slowly, attempting to close his mind to everything around him, besides that tri-coloured signage. It seemed ominous from such a distance, but the hunter focused solely on the red dot that was painted into the center of the target until it seemed to burn itself into his retinas. The urge to blink was incredibly great, so he quickly relieved his eyes, opening them again only for them to dilate unnecessarily and momentarily blind him. His concentration broken, the Kelvic let out a growl of frustration as his fingers accidentally released the arrow and it soared unskillfully towards the target.
Veering widely to the left, it didn’t even hit the target; the weapon even skimming past the hay bale that was set behind it to bounce harmlessly off of the wall. Hissing in frustration, he kicked the sandy ground, strewing sand in front of him. Muttering darkly about his pitiful concentration, the eagle shook out his tight arms and settled back into his stance to take another shot. He only had a few more chimes before Ainyi was set to arrive and he had hopes that by the end of it, he’d be able to at least consistently hit the target before him. Unfortunately, it was hardly looking like that would be possible, considering that he was pretty sure that the few times it had occurred, it was simply because of luck.
Letting out another breath, he relaxed his shoulders. If he wanted to improve his shot, he needed to rid his body of tension otherwise it would hinder the flight of the arrow. Concentrating once more on breathing, he inhaled the oxygen and attempted to imagine it flowing through his body; entering his lungs and dispersing all the way to the tips of his toes. It was hard for him to focus on the path considering he had minimal understanding of the body’s anatomy, but he tried anyway, visualizing the basics without much difficulty. Exhaling out again, he tried to visualize the toxins within his body leaving with each breath, but it was difficult imagery. Frowning, but unwilling to stop, he continued again; each inhale releasing more tension, while each exhale eliminated poison from his body.
Once he felt somewhat calmer, the man once again drew an arrow from the quiver on his back. Holding it delicately by its feathered tip, he fumbled to nock it correctly upon the bowstring. He assumed that the arrow would be best nocked in the center, but he was unsure about the perfect placement. Frowning slightly when it was finally attached, he drew the string back once again. The tension in the bowstring caused a messy drawback; his elbow resembling a chicken wing as it flapped unceremoniously before he finally tucked it back behind his ear. The shaft of the arrow bounced against the body of the bow, but he slipped his thumb behind the metaled tip in order to silence the worrisome clatter. Once in place, he contemplated leaving his thumb there, but figured that once he released the arrow, the feathers would hit his finger and basically remove any power behind the release. So, allowing the shaft to rest in the little ‘v’ pocket his thumb and index finger created, he took another deep breath and looked at the target.
Aiming for the center, he focused his gaze on the red circle, but found it flitting around with each shot that was taken by his fellow archers in the Second Quiver. Frowning slightly, he refocused, breathed, and let the arrow fly. The power was strong as it took flight, but it was easily hindered as it weaved unsteadily in the air, catching wind rather than cutting through it, until it landed prematurely upon the floor. Frowning, he dropped his arms and sighed. It seemed he was back to not hitting the target once again.
The tension in his arm was killing him. Grimacing slightly as his muscles screamed in anger, the man held his position for a tick longer; determined to not let physical pain get the best of him. Minimal quakes ran up and down his bent arm; the muscles shaking slightly as they fought the tight bowstring that yearned to be released. His fingers restlessly shook against the feathered tip, causing the arrow to shake slightly as well. It really wasn’t the best conditions for the man to take his shot, but the hunter was determined to defeat his mind and its pleading for him to put it out of its misery. Regardless of the fact that it was his body that was in pain, Wingard knew that pain was simply a sensation and that if he was truly a warrior, he would easily be able to overcome its dominating presence by willpower alone.
Grinding his teeth together, he let a ragged breath whistle through them. ’Concentrate,’ he thought, attempting to pull his mind away from the pain. Staring down at the evenly painted target before him, the man channeled his energies into that specific being, ’Just focus on the target.’ Tuning out the quivering sensations that were singing solos up and down his arm, Wingard looked at the target that lay 15 feet away from him. Taking another steady, deep breath, he let it out slowly, attempting to close his mind to everything around him, besides that tri-coloured signage. It seemed ominous from such a distance, but the hunter focused solely on the red dot that was painted into the center of the target until it seemed to burn itself into his retinas. The urge to blink was incredibly great, so he quickly relieved his eyes, opening them again only for them to dilate unnecessarily and momentarily blind him. His concentration broken, the Kelvic let out a growl of frustration as his fingers accidentally released the arrow and it soared unskillfully towards the target.
Veering widely to the left, it didn’t even hit the target; the weapon even skimming past the hay bale that was set behind it to bounce harmlessly off of the wall. Hissing in frustration, he kicked the sandy ground, strewing sand in front of him. Muttering darkly about his pitiful concentration, the eagle shook out his tight arms and settled back into his stance to take another shot. He only had a few more chimes before Ainyi was set to arrive and he had hopes that by the end of it, he’d be able to at least consistently hit the target before him. Unfortunately, it was hardly looking like that would be possible, considering that he was pretty sure that the few times it had occurred, it was simply because of luck.
Letting out another breath, he relaxed his shoulders. If he wanted to improve his shot, he needed to rid his body of tension otherwise it would hinder the flight of the arrow. Concentrating once more on breathing, he inhaled the oxygen and attempted to imagine it flowing through his body; entering his lungs and dispersing all the way to the tips of his toes. It was hard for him to focus on the path considering he had minimal understanding of the body’s anatomy, but he tried anyway, visualizing the basics without much difficulty. Exhaling out again, he tried to visualize the toxins within his body leaving with each breath, but it was difficult imagery. Frowning, but unwilling to stop, he continued again; each inhale releasing more tension, while each exhale eliminated poison from his body.
Once he felt somewhat calmer, the man once again drew an arrow from the quiver on his back. Holding it delicately by its feathered tip, he fumbled to nock it correctly upon the bowstring. He assumed that the arrow would be best nocked in the center, but he was unsure about the perfect placement. Frowning slightly when it was finally attached, he drew the string back once again. The tension in the bowstring caused a messy drawback; his elbow resembling a chicken wing as it flapped unceremoniously before he finally tucked it back behind his ear. The shaft of the arrow bounced against the body of the bow, but he slipped his thumb behind the metaled tip in order to silence the worrisome clatter. Once in place, he contemplated leaving his thumb there, but figured that once he released the arrow, the feathers would hit his finger and basically remove any power behind the release. So, allowing the shaft to rest in the little ‘v’ pocket his thumb and index finger created, he took another deep breath and looked at the target.
Aiming for the center, he focused his gaze on the red circle, but found it flitting around with each shot that was taken by his fellow archers in the Second Quiver. Frowning slightly, he refocused, breathed, and let the arrow fly. The power was strong as it took flight, but it was easily hindered as it weaved unsteadily in the air, catching wind rather than cutting through it, until it landed prematurely upon the floor. Frowning, he dropped his arms and sighed. It seemed he was back to not hitting the target once again.
