Day 37, Season of Fall, 513 AV
It had been over a third of a season since Kit had last ventured into The Spot; that had been an overwhelming mistake. Still when she meandered onto the tavern-boat she Kit found herself shirking a little. Some turned their eyes toward her, frowned or muttered something under their breath. One didn't start trouble and expect everything to blow over . . . But neither did anyone stop her from coming in. And no longer was she overwhelmed by overgiving-driven panic. So far so good!
Kit was wearing her courier's leathers tonight, and she did not make the mistake of leaving her belt and tools behind this time. Her dagger hung in its scabbard by her belt, her knives all tucked into her jacket. It would do well for her, Kit thought, to be seen as someone actually capable of defending themselves before she tried any performing. The way she had been approached even just while sitting down had not been good.
Rather than the stage, this time Kit wandered backward toward the target. It was a painted bit of wood nailed to the wall, pockmarked by little holes left by other marksmen attempting to improve their aim, white and black circles within circles until it closed on a dot in the center. Measurements of accuracy, Kit thought. She straightened her jacket and looked around her. Mostly people stared into their drink, muttered darkly to each other, but some looked up, trying to take her measure in. Kit swallowed, pulled a throwing dagger from her coat and tested its weight in her hand, coiled two fingers around its hilt.
She raised and lowered her hands almost mechanically, going through with the motion of the throw again, again, again. She raised her hand up, swung it down. It was important, Darilava had taught her, to not throw it the same way you threw a ball or a stone. That spun it, and spun it fast. On an object that was more or less a circle it didn't matter, but the knife was not. Controlling the spin precisely was essential, and that meant throwing with the arm instead of the body. There would be far less force behind the throw, but at least then Kit could be near-certain that the sharp end would land, instead of the dull hilt.
One last time she swung down her arm and let go just then, the knife flung forward, spinning once, twice in the the air before sinking into the wood, vibrating where it landed, on one of the outer rings of the target. Kit bristled at her inaccuracy. Look at how small that target is, she willed the watchers notice. It's about the size of a torso, and I can hit it.
With chimes of preparation and testing, sure. Just ask the next shadowy figure who accosted her to stand still, and they'd give her time. Ha! Kit hissed through her teeth and pulled out another dagger for a second try.