6th of spring, 517 a.v
morning
Inside Alvadas, every breath was madness. Ever since the beginning of the season, it seemed to have reached a fever pitch; something was happening, a festival of some sort, and it made the city and people unbearable in their chaos. Everything was noise and shadows; on a bad day, Colt couldn’t even be sure that the ground under his feet was real, much less the people around him and the mirages flickering in the corner of his eyes. The city’s madness was unending.
Outside the city, though, there was tranquility.
Even just a few steps outside the wall, Colt could already feel the world slotting into place around him. Solid. Slow. Sensible. Snow trotted peacefully at his hip, gradually easing as the chaos faded to order. The mountain pines creaked softly in the wind, joined by birdsong and the occasional chatter of squabbling chipmunks. Far overhead, a long-winged bird was coasting lazily, with finger-like primary feathers and a short head. A vulture, perhaps?
It was a bittersweet experience, feeling the natural world while knowing that, no matter how much it calmed him, he would have to return to Alvadas at some point. For just a moment, Colt turned to glance over his shoulder, not at the city, but beyond––past the walls, past the sea, into the far east along the silver cord that called to him every waking moment.
And then he reminded himself of the here and now, before those thoughts could stray into more painful territory.
The wayward Drykas paused after a chime of walking, closing his eyes to just experience the world around him. He knew that, despite appearances, all was not well; winter’s absence had done damage, but without a mark for mountains, all he could do was speculate. Kalea was beyond his ability to heal, which frustrated him.
Colt didn’t go far from Alvadas––he had a sneaking suspicion that if he did, the city might not be there when he got back––but still managed to leave sight of the walls. When he felt sufficiently alone, he dropped the archer’s target he had been carrying and stretched to get blood flowing back through his shoulders. Snow, sensing that they were stopping, sniffed at the target once before wandering off a few feet to investigate their surroundings.
The shortbow was a strange weapon to him, but he’d yet to run across any weaponsmith with javelins on this side of the world. The shortbow had been––no, still was––Khida’s weapon, and despite being a novice with it, the thing was not foreign. In its own way, it brought an illusion of comfort.
He found a break in the trees large enough to set up the archer’s target and wide enough to shoot, where the ground was carpeted in pine needles and thick bracken made false walls around him. There were a few curious jays that regarded him oddly, but for the most part the world passed him by to attend its own business. Colt strung his bow, slung his quiver across his shoulders and drew an arrow.
The first shot was barely a shot at all; Colt stood directly in front of the target, taking only as much distance as was required to physically draw the weapon. He was a strong man, but hadn’t expected the strain in his neck––a bow used more muscles than he assumed. But that was the purpose of this first shot; not to aim, but to become familiar with his new weapon and what it took to use it.
Colt drew the nocked arrow to his cheek, and then he held. He felt the tension in his body, taking note of each protesting muscle and their locations; if he knew where the strain was, he could build tolerance. After five deep breaths, he let the arrow go.
At a distance of two paces, the arrow hit the target in front of him.
The Witch closed his eyes to feel the burn slipping out of his shoulders and the familiar tingle of exercise it left behind. He rolled his neck and felt a few satisfying cracks, then drew another arrow. Another shot, another self-study.
morning
Inside Alvadas, every breath was madness. Ever since the beginning of the season, it seemed to have reached a fever pitch; something was happening, a festival of some sort, and it made the city and people unbearable in their chaos. Everything was noise and shadows; on a bad day, Colt couldn’t even be sure that the ground under his feet was real, much less the people around him and the mirages flickering in the corner of his eyes. The city’s madness was unending.
Outside the city, though, there was tranquility.
Even just a few steps outside the wall, Colt could already feel the world slotting into place around him. Solid. Slow. Sensible. Snow trotted peacefully at his hip, gradually easing as the chaos faded to order. The mountain pines creaked softly in the wind, joined by birdsong and the occasional chatter of squabbling chipmunks. Far overhead, a long-winged bird was coasting lazily, with finger-like primary feathers and a short head. A vulture, perhaps?
It was a bittersweet experience, feeling the natural world while knowing that, no matter how much it calmed him, he would have to return to Alvadas at some point. For just a moment, Colt turned to glance over his shoulder, not at the city, but beyond––past the walls, past the sea, into the far east along the silver cord that called to him every waking moment.
And then he reminded himself of the here and now, before those thoughts could stray into more painful territory.
The wayward Drykas paused after a chime of walking, closing his eyes to just experience the world around him. He knew that, despite appearances, all was not well; winter’s absence had done damage, but without a mark for mountains, all he could do was speculate. Kalea was beyond his ability to heal, which frustrated him.
Colt didn’t go far from Alvadas––he had a sneaking suspicion that if he did, the city might not be there when he got back––but still managed to leave sight of the walls. When he felt sufficiently alone, he dropped the archer’s target he had been carrying and stretched to get blood flowing back through his shoulders. Snow, sensing that they were stopping, sniffed at the target once before wandering off a few feet to investigate their surroundings.
The shortbow was a strange weapon to him, but he’d yet to run across any weaponsmith with javelins on this side of the world. The shortbow had been––no, still was––Khida’s weapon, and despite being a novice with it, the thing was not foreign. In its own way, it brought an illusion of comfort.
He found a break in the trees large enough to set up the archer’s target and wide enough to shoot, where the ground was carpeted in pine needles and thick bracken made false walls around him. There were a few curious jays that regarded him oddly, but for the most part the world passed him by to attend its own business. Colt strung his bow, slung his quiver across his shoulders and drew an arrow.
The first shot was barely a shot at all; Colt stood directly in front of the target, taking only as much distance as was required to physically draw the weapon. He was a strong man, but hadn’t expected the strain in his neck––a bow used more muscles than he assumed. But that was the purpose of this first shot; not to aim, but to become familiar with his new weapon and what it took to use it.
Colt drew the nocked arrow to his cheek, and then he held. He felt the tension in his body, taking note of each protesting muscle and their locations; if he knew where the strain was, he could build tolerance. After five deep breaths, he let the arrow go.
At a distance of two paces, the arrow hit the target in front of him.
The Witch closed his eyes to feel the burn slipping out of his shoulders and the familiar tingle of exercise it left behind. He rolled his neck and felt a few satisfying cracks, then drew another arrow. Another shot, another self-study.