Closed Warriors of West and East Meet (Konrad)

[Turrin]

Time Stamp: 16th of Spring, 517AV
Location: War Storm Pavilion
Who: Konrad Venger

Walking into the Warstorm tent, Turrin was happy that he came here a couple days earlier, so the bare chested Inarta walked into with just his quiver strapped to his back and his talon sword strapped to his belt. As the triathlon approached, Turrin was starting to get excited about the archery contest. He wasn't a master archer, but he was good enough to impress his new hosts. The horse-lords were archers in their own right, but the Inarta were known throughout the world as fabled archers, and he not going to disgrace his mother people with lazy techniques especially in archery. The former endal walked with his head up and full of confidence as he approached the archery range. Turrin looked for a open target and all the standard round targets were taken by other archers training for the triathlon, so he went to the target shaped like a armored human. Being apart of the Warhawk Flight in Wind Reach, Turrin hunted and killed foreign poachers around Wind Reach, so this is a perfectly fine target for him to test his archery precision with besides round targets with a bulls-eye were unrealistic and boring. This was a much funner target to test his skills. When Turrin got to his desired target, he put on his archery gloves and started to get ready for his first shots.

Unstrapping his talon sword to the left side of his waist, Turrin moved his quiver to right side of his waist if he wanted to do speed shots, he didn't want to waist time reaching around his back to get another arrow. Stringing his short bow, he bent the wood of the bow slightly to allow enough slack to move the arrow into the bowstring notch. When his bowstring was secure, he took a broad tipped arrow from his quiver on his hip, spun the arrow between his fingers, and glanced at his target. The broad tipped arrow shouldn't have a problem piercing the leather armor if he missed his target. It would be a slower death if he hit it in the chest, but he would die without quick medical attention. He was going to aim for the neck right under the chin and above the chest plate of the dummy this shot would kill him much quicker. No use to have him suffer before he dined with Dira moments later.

Getting his feet into position, Turrin held the bow with the left hand and turned his head towards his target. Keeping his eyes focused on the target, Turrin placed the notch of the arrow on the bowstring, and he slowly lifted his bow. He didn't have to do the motions slow, but he was working on technique on the first shot rather than showing off his skill. Resting the shaft of the arrow on the right side of the bow instead of left, he hooked his up pointer finger on his left hand, so the arrow could rest there. It will be easier to reload the next arrow with this finger positioning. Lining up the tip of the arrow with the neck of the target, he pulled back the bowstring, and repositioned the shot back to the middle of the neck. Taking in a shallow breath, released the first arrow, but he didn't take the opportunity to admire his first shot because he already reaching down for the second arrow when he grabbed the next arrow. He placed it onto the bowstring, rested on the extended finger on the right side of the shaft, adjust his shot slightly, so the tip of the arrow lined up with elbow of the dummy, pulled back the bowstring, adjusted aim again back to the elbow, and released the bowstring with a twang!

This time Turrin didn't grab another arrow because he watched the second arrow fly towards the target. He wasn't sure if he was moving to fast or Zulrav was just petching with him, but his arrow veered down the arm from the elbow and embedded himself in the forearm of the sword arm of the dummy. Turrin sighed as he realized that he missed his target of the second shot, but the first shot embedded itself in the soft tissue of the neck under the chin that was a bull-eye shot on a round target. Lowering his bow, Turrin waited for the archers around him to finish their shots, and he put his bow on the line to show and tell everyone around him that he was retrieving his arrows. Walking out to the dummy, he removed the arrows and walked back to his short bow for his next shot. Putting his finger in his month, he got it wet to figure out the direction of the wind and held it up into the air. It was a slight wind coming, so the second shot must been taken by a rogue gust. Shaking his head at the wind, he smiled at nothing, but it was directed at the playful god of wind and storms.

[Konrad Venger]

He thought you had to be invited, or a member, and both were things that generally didn't happen to him. People didn't willingly ask him to turn up to places, and even fewer asked him to stick around on a permanent basis. But as he'd walked his errands in days before, Konrad had frowned and noticed the usual busy cluster of Drykas warriors had swelled with women, juvies, and walahks like him from all over the Moving City.

Must be training for that tri-ether-lon thing.

The thought has occurred to him, but flitted away quickly after. What had remained, though, was the understanding, and the realization: the Warstorm range was open to all. Well, count him among that number!

He got his share of looks when he'd strode onto the pavilion's grounds, his scars and black hat and hells, his very nature stamped across his visage drawing stares. Konrad was an old hand at ignoring them, though. He simply held fast to the shortbow he carried and felt reassured by the quiver of arrows slapping onto his back as he walked up the row of targets, trying to find-

There!

He slid in front of one, head swiveling side to side to take in his neighbors, as a matter of course. On one side, a young Drykas braving trying to grow some fur on his face tried giving him the fierce loom of a proud young man, before seeing exactly whom he was trying to stare down. He got on with his practice after that. Konrad snorted and turned to the other side... and got no looks. No attention. No notice.

Mainly because this man was there to practice, and little else.

He wasn't Drykas, at least as much as Konrad had identified "Drykas" as a people. It seemed they were mongrels, in many ways. Oh, the blonde hair and pale skin were one thing, but they were so few that they seemed to take in peoples from all over to bolster their numbers. So it was that after a generation or two, there were black, brown, yellow and bronze Drykas, not just the golden examples.

Except the ones in charge, of course.

Whatever he was, Konrad noted his footing, his bearing. One foot towards the target, the other to the side. The way he wore his quiver, for ease of reloading... and damned if he didn't have the second arrow nocked, drawn and loosed before the first had even stopped trembling in the distant target. Konrad squinted down the range and his eyebrows shot up. The first had been a killshot, of that he was sure. Right under the chin, beating any armor save a Knight's gorget, and even then, only maybe.

From this distance, too. Impressive.

The second was not nearly as good, but as he watched, Konrad cocked his head to one side and worked out along withe the odd brown man why that had been. That finger trick... wind? Yes, he'd seen it before. Ah, the wind had caught it. He made a note to remember that as Turrin returned to the firing line, finding Konrad planting his own feet, just as his own had been. An arrow was in the string and he raised the bow-

-pulling the string back as he did, back muscles doing more work than his arms. He didn't need them shaking and weak, not when his back could do the job just as well. Two fingers held the feathered end of the arrow in place, and as the arrow came up, he closed one eye... and squinted down the straight wooden stick, tipped with a sharp metal head.

The target wasn't close, but it was about as far as the targets would be in the contest, he guessed. Well. Fine. Difficult, but how else would one improve? He put the stranger out of his mind for a moment, ignored the niggling thought that told him there was something familiar about his features, his color. No, instead he listened to his cheek. His ears. His very skin.

Listened and felt the breeze on them. How they all chilled when it kicked up, hairs on them rustling silently. Then did nothing when it fell still-

-and when it did, he loosed.

"... bollocks."

Shyke. Well. Early days...

[Turrin]

Walking back to the target, Turrin noticed a scarred man was watching him. The scars were so bad, he thought it was a mask covering his true appearance. The Inarta didn't stare at him, but it was long enough to gather enough information to realize the man seen some awful shyte in his life. He wasn't quite sure if this man a Drykas because he didn't wear the normal clothing the Drykas normally wore. He wore a large brimmed hat and a long jacket. The clothing wasn't as colorful that he seen when he walking around Endrykas. He starting to wonder if he was a outsider like himself. If he was a outsider, he would rather have this one on his side. He would definitely not want him to be a enemy. When he got to the line, he examined the used arrow and decided not to use it again till he can have a Fletcher examine it. Setting both the used arrows off to the side and giving the scarred man a nod, he went back to the firing line.

Suddenly, he heard a word that sounded like a curse word, bullocks. This wasn't common slang that he never heard, and now he was curious about the stranger.

Getting back into his firing stance, Turrin placed the arrow on the bowstring, lifted the tip of the arrow till it line up with the top of the wrist, and pulled back the bowstring. This was a precision shot to disarm the humanoid dummy. The Inarta held the tension on the bowstring as he kept readjusting the aim and watching the grass behind the target to wait till the wind dies down before letting the bowstring loose. When the grass stopped swaying, the warrior let loose the bowstring and kept the short bow up till the arrow strikes the target. Hitting the top of the wrist was a small and tough target to hit, so as he predicted the arrow plunged into the forearm of the target. He was off by three petching inches! Turrin knew enough about Myri's religion know that she slain Ruros to become a god. All Myrian children schooled in Myri's religion should know how their Goddess became a god. Ruros, a now a dead god, is a good deity to curse in such a trivial situation. Turrin cussed in common loud enough for the two people either side of him to hear, “By Ruros' rotting ball sack!”

Pulling another arrow out of his quiver, the Inarta warrior kept the bow still in the air, he reached down into his quiver, pulled out another arrow, placed the arrow on the bowstring, and pulled the bowstring back to the front of his face. The myrian lined up the arrow with the top of the wrist and kept is eye ont the swaying grass. He waited till the grass was slightly blowing in the direction of the wrist and not the direction towards the torso. When the grass shifted slightly towards the wrist, Turrin released aimed it two inches down to forearm away from the wrist. He hoped the arrow would be caught by the wind slightly to curve into the top of the wrist. Releasing the bowstring, Turrin watched as the arrow streaked towards the top of the wrist. The arrow was true on his mark, but he miss judged the wind speed and the arrow embedded about a two inches away from toward the top of the wrist. He missed his mark again!

Sighing in frustration, Turrin decided to make conversation with the scarred man. He lowered the short bow and turned his head to the scarred man. He didn't want to bother him while he was taking his shot, so he waited till he was finished to break the ice. He has been Endrykas for eleven days and a question about a term in the Pavi language kind of nagged at him. When the man was finished with his shot, Turrin asked with a smile, “Sorry to bother you, but I have a question. I kept hearing a title for foreigners like me, and I was wondering if a walahk is a title or is it a insult?” Chuckling to himself, Turrin said with a smirk, “From the way, the Drykas say it. I am starting to lean more towards insult.”

[Konrad Venger]

Konrad couldn't help the twitch of his lips when he heard the curse explode from the dark man's throat. A memory lashed out from deep in his mind, quick and unexpected as a back alley blade, a hated face and yet laughter beyond it. That man. That petching man, who'd scarred him and abused him and marred him body and soul, and still he had memories that could make him smile.

Until they all coagulated and twisted into the only one that mattered.

Metal smacked into wood and Konrad's reminiscence was broken, eyes snapping to the trembling arrow. Another fine shot, though by the loks of it, not the one the man had wanted. Konrad had to resist the urge to shake his head: no way could he hit a target that small, that precise, with his skill, but this man? He acted like it was a pathetic miss, way out into air beyond the targets.

The Sunberth man brought up his bow, fresh arrow already nocked. He breathed steadily. He squinted down the shaft. He did everything right, from the raise to the draw to the aiming to listening to his skin until it told him he was ready... but simply skipping through the motions isn't enough. He needed the time, the experience, the motions etched into his muscles until they knew them before his mind did.

Perfect form isn't enough. But it's better than none.

Konrad let fly on the exhale and the arrow was a blur across the sky for a brief moment. He blinked and fancied he could see it there, frozen, as if Tanroa had died or simply smashed his Great Sandglass, halting the march of time for a brief handful of ticks. Then his eyelids flashed again and the arrow was-

-in the target. Lower than he wanted, guts rather than breastbone, but good enough. A man with that would wouldn't be worried about charging, more about the red-hot agony in his stomach that simply would not stop. So Konrad gave a satisfied smirk, and readied another-

His hand stopped as the words poured into his ear. An accent that seemed to stall his very heart for a moment, it was so familiar. But whereas that had been screamed or shouted or snarled and spat, this one rolled with good humor, even manners. Many would assume that Myrians, those of the savage jungle, were incapable of civility. They were usually the same sort that marched into their lands, banners blazing and swords shining, seeking glory and conquest over the Children of Myri.

Namely, they were very, very stupid.

Konrad turned slowly to regard the man. Studied and scrutinized him like an insect. Turrin may have thought violence was imminent from the scowl he wore, and not just from the permanent damage done to half his face, forever twisting one side of it into a sneer. No, there was something old yet latent pouring off the elder man. Some fear or hatred that had found a target.

Konrad knew that accent. Knew that voice. Those words. That tongue. For the first ten years of his life, he'd heard it every day.

"I..." He had to swallow before he could go on. This man was just that: a man. Not the other one. Not an enemy. He was not at home, where a few brews and a bad mood might have sent him lashing out on general principle; he was in the Moving City. "They... Y'know what it means?" He waited for a moment and then carried on. "In Pavi, t'means 'horse-less'. Well, y'know 'ow these lot love their horses, dontcha? Ev'ry'fins' about soddin' horses, one way or another. So, they call someone horse-less..."

The walahk shrugged, even though technically the term wasn't accurate anymore. He had a horse, and a saddle, and reins, and rode with the city when it moved, hunted with his pavilion from the back of it, rode out into the Sea of Grass and spurred him on so fast that the wind felt like he was falling off a cliff.

But he was an outsider, still. Not a true, bonded Drykas. Probably never would be. Konrad realized that should have bothered him, but curiously enough... it rarely did. Only when he put the idea in a different context. Most days, he had shelter, food, protection, and the means to make money. Petch else did he need?

He turned back to the target and drew an arrow as he did. Sometimes he wouldn't have time to stretch out the shot to half a chime; sometimes your enemy was charging in close and you just had to yank back the string and let fly-

-which he did, and he hissed, and did his best to put on his mental blinkers and ignore the whispers from around him, all the other folk watching that arrow sail past the closer target instead of smashing into it.

Konrad's jaw torqued and yet some humorous part of his mind chuckled darkly. The Myrian was watching him, and yes, he knew that's what he was. So when he cursed lowly, next time, it was with a rasped-

"Ruros' balls...!"

In Myrian.

[Turrin]

Turrin watched the man face twisted into a ugly mask of rage. He doubted the man was truly angry at him because he just asked a simple question, but he knew people from his past that got angry at him for no reason. This older man had his own past, and he wasn't going to drudge it up because simply, he didn't care. If he got to know him, and the scarred man felt like telling him than maybe he would care more. However, he was here to practice if he got to know someone during his practice, fine. The former endal ignored his sneers. Suddenly the old man answered his question. Walakhk meant horseless. Turrin figured that it had to do with horses because the whole society was built around the animals, but he bought a horse, so horseless wouldn't be a title given to him unless it dealt with the Striders, the center of Drykas society. In Wind Reach, Turrin just referred to foreigners as outsiders if they were trouble makers or clueless. He would just refer to them as idiots. However, once again he was a foreigner in another land, so he was labeled a walakhk. He figured by the way the scarred man talked about Drykas culture. He assumed that he was a walakhk too.

When the man with the hat turned away from him to shot, Turrin walked back to the firing line. Pulling arrow from the quiver on his hip, he placed it onto the bowstring. Lifting the bow till the tip of the arrow lines up with the wrist of the dummy, Turrin pulled back the bowstring to the front of his face. The arrow was off target, so he adjusted the shot accordingly. The vagabond decided not to fight the wind and just hold it till the wind died. Holding the arrow in this position was testing the endurance in his arm as the swaying of grass seemed endless. The triceps and biceps burned as his finger muscles felt like they were about to cramp up. Thirty ticks went by and finally the wind was still. Turrin let loose the arrow and watched as the soared towards his intended target. The arrow whistled through the air as it impaled itself through the wrist of the dummy. He finally hit his attended target. If the shot hit a real person, he could in theory disarmed him or her. Of course, he wouldn't know how long her or she would survive because they might bleed out.

Taking another arrow out of his quiver, Turrin twirled it in his fingers with a smile of satisfaction on his face. Precision shots were tough, but they were getting easier for him as the days went bye. The inarta decided to watch the old man. For some reason, the human had his back turned to the target as he prepared his shot. Turrin didn't judge the man's odd behavior, but he quickly turned around and shot at the target. Turrin raised an eye brow. He was doing a blind shot, but a archer still needed to aim first or listen for movement to figure out the location of the target. A archer can't just twirl, shoot, and expect to hit something. He was lucky that he didn't hit anyone in the range. He figured if he did. He would be in trouble with the Drykas authority. Suddenly, the man cursed Ruros in Myrian, or precisely his balls.

Turrin decided to communicate him in myrian, it was a tad rusty, but he remembered enough to talk in his father's tongue, “I see what your trying to do there. Remember, you always have time to aim even if your enemy is charging. You arrows move faster than your enemy can charge. You just need to turn towards the sound or have target in your mind before turning and shooting. Speaking from experience if you hit them, they will slow down unless they are on drugs or worse. Unless, they are to close to turn and shot than you drop your bow, pull your sword, and pray to Myri for victory.”

Turrin gave him a blood thirsty smirk and continued in myrian, “Or you could stab them with the arrow. I haven't tried that one yet.”

[Konrad Venger]

Konrad blinked blankly as a torrent of guttural Myrian poured from the stranger's darkly handsome face. The more he listened the more emotion flashed across his face. First confusion, heightened by the tight, simmering anger Turrin had seen before, but then his eyes glazed... and his gaze seemed to turn inward... on the myriad of memories that language evoked. Dozens, scores of flashes all linked by the common thread of words born in the deepest, distant jungles, carried all the way to a land of sewers and stone and rough men under smoky skies.

Konrad blinked and in that mere fractured tick, he heard his father's voice. Heard many of those same sounds and knew them as words, even if he barely followed a quarter of what Turrin was saying. He heard them screamed and snarled, shouted and even said with mirth and drunken ease.

Those were the rare times. A mere handful among a decade of hazy recollections. All of them made moot by the final act. The last night he remembered, when that Myrian was choked by rage and drink and when last he heard that voice, it was behind a gladius hurtling towards his face.

The Myrian paused and Konrad's lips curled back from his teeth, like a wolf fitting to jump on a lamb. "I don't pray to that petching bitch" formed in his head but before he could spit the words out into the sky... the Myrian actually said something that gave him pause. He looked down at the arrow in his own hand, and perused the sharp tip. It wasn't tapered like a sword, but... mayhap a spear. in miniature.

A weapon of deep desperation, but one nonetheless.

"Aye," he said, switching to his usual grinding Common, lilting yet beligerent Sunberth accent mangling the words. "I'll remember that one..."

He turned back to the target, arrow notched, and when he raised up this time... he took that extra tick or two. How fast could that target cover the ground to him? Three ticks? Four? Something like that. So he spent a whole two aiming-

-closing an eye, feeling the wind, placing the tip of the arrow over his target, then feeling a gust so compensating a touch-

-before letting it fly with a wet twang across the dry air. There was a thunk a tick later, arrow burying into the cloth-covered wood, and not where he'd aimed. Not in the dead center, where it would pierce bone and beating heart, but good enough. Maybe it would slant off ribs, yet it would stick. The bastard might even have been bowled over, spun around, easy prey for a follow up shot that would finish the job.

Konrad drew another arrow, intending to do just that.

"Dunno much a' that blather, mate," he said, voice terse and at odds with the last words. He squinted down the length of the arrow. "Me Dad spoke it, but no' me. Cunny lit out when I was a lad. So do's us both a favor-"

Twang

Carefuly, steady, and simple. That was how he kept it. Ticks to aim, ticks more to wait for the wind to stall, and he aimed for the center of the target. The arrow flew true as his fingers just flicks, going from bent to straight in a twinkling, sending the arrow thudding into the heart of the target. Wouldn't take long for the bastard to bleed out, if it were a man. Either way, Konrad doubted he'd be worrying about charging.

"-stick wi' Common, aye?"

[Turrin]

As he was speaking in myrian, Turrin noticed once again that he must of struck a cord with the older man because the man's face twisted with anger. The vagabond was starting to realize that being a myrian or speaking his father's tongue triggered some deep seeded anger in the older man's past. Maybe he should just stick to common tongue. Suddenly, the man gave him a clue that his father spoke it to him, and the thoughts whirled around in his head that maybe the rage might be connected to his father somehow. He definitely wasn't going press him on the issue, so he decided to just stick to common. No need to make a enemy in first week in the city of Endrykas.

The Inarta listened his arrow whistle through the air as it flew towards the heart of the dummy, and it struck it's mark. It was a good shot, and he was about to compliment him, but the man started to speak in common that he should just stick to common. Turrin nodded with a smile, “Honestly, I prefer common tongue. I haven't spoke my father's tongue since I left Taloba, so I am kind of rusty anyways.”

Turrin wasn't quite sure if the man understood what he said in myrian, so he decided to give him the advice in common instead, “Anyways, I was just saying in myrian if you want to blind shot. Try to gather the direction of your target before you turn around to shoot. Use your other senses like hearing or smell to gather your targets direction because if you just turn around and shot randomly. You will end up not hitting your target or you'll end up shooting someone who isn't your intended target. If your enemy or target is charging, remember your arrow flies faster than they can run, so you will have time to aim and shoot even if it just for a moment.”

Turrin decided to introduce himself to the scarred man, “Sorry I should introduce myself. The name is Turrin. I hope that I am not bothering you by chatting with you.”

The golden-eyed man looked at his shot and said with smile, “Good shot.” The Inarta wondered if he could hit it twice. If he could, the man was definitely competent with his short bow if not it was just luck. Turrin decided to give him a playful grin and decided to challenge him, “Can you hit the same target twice?”

Turrin wasn't trying to be arrogant. He was just trying to get a judge on the older man's skill with a short bow. Maybe he could help him improve his technique, or he could try to learn something about archery from another person's perceptive. If he wanted to become a master archer, he would need to learn how to learn different firing, drawing and shooting techniques, or he would have to sharpen his own skills and techniques through teaching another archer to gain a better understanding on his art. Pulling two arrows out of his quiver, Turrin wanted to work on his speed, but he needed to work on a new technique to improve holding his arrows and firing them. The Inarta looked at how he was holding his short bow. In theory, he didn't need his quiver because he technically hold some arrows while he was holding the shaft of his bow. Also he could hold multiple arrows in his shooting hand. The Inarta placed one arrow in-between the pointer finger and the middle finger and the second arrow between the middle finger and and ring finger.

Putting the second arrow back into the quiver, Turrin decided to work on firing techniques instead. Looking at his grip on the knock of the arrows, the archer wondered if he could shoot with his middle finger and ring finger allowing him to hold a second arrow with his thumb and pointer finger. Walking to the firing line, Turrin to the firing line. He placed the arrow in-between his middle and ring finger. It was awkward because he normally fired the arrow with his pointer and middle finger holding the arrow. Slowly, he placed it on the string and lifted the bow till the arrow head lined up with the center of the abdomen. The belly button was his target. He pulled back the bowstring and readjusted the tip of arrow with the belly belly button of the target. Releasing the bowstring, Turrin watched as it sailed towards the abdomen, but the shot was less accurate with his new holding technique than his old technique, so the arrow plunged into the sternum of the dummy. He figured the more that he practiced shooting with his new technique. He accuracy will get better over time. Smiling to himself, Turrin said to himself in common, “It work! I going to have to practice more for accuracy, but it worked!”

[Konrad Venger]

Cheva's Cunny, this bastard ever shut up?

Konrad wasn't a man given easily to conversation. He asked what he needed to know and answered what he was asked, and there the list ended. It suited him, and his profession. Well... past profession, as he had to keep reminding himself those days. It had been quite a while since he'd raised his blades in anger, and had to clean blood off them afterwards. Almost a whole season. The last time he'd gone that long had been...

Turrin was in the middle of gabbling on about "blind shots", as if he needed that explained to him, but Konrad was barely listening. Barely there. Lost in memory, eyes full of a wrinkled old face that looked on him with love, even though she knew the lives ruined by his hands. The one that convinced him there was a better way, and for a time, he'd believed her.

No longer.

"Think I'll stick t'tryna' hit what I'm aimin' at when I can see it," he said, notching a fresh arrow in the strong of his bow as he spoke. "Then I'll think about gettin' fancy an' fast wiv' it, aye?" He raised the bow and aimed down the shaft. Just like before. Draw with his back muscles... all the way back... sight his shot... "An' if he's gettin' that close t'me... trust me, I ain't gonna have a bow in me hand-"

TWANG

Aim small, miss small. That was the mantra that Konrad was working with. Nothing fancy, nothing worthy of the skill this chatty Myrian had displayed so casually. Center mass shots, all in the torso, that was what he wanted, and that's what he got with that last arrow. In a twinkling it flew from the string and into the target with a meaty thunk, right above the stomach.

Konrad smiled softly. He enjoyed imagining exactly where on a real body the arrow would land. The damage and agony it could inflict... and, most importantly, how it would disable his enemy.

Not bad, he told himself, already reaching for a fresh arrow. Tear up his guts nicely, maybe even nick his lungs.

"Hansel."

He spoke the lie as "Turrin" introduced himself, not even needing to pause before he uttered it anymore. Deception came easily to Konrad, after a lifetime in a place and profession where lies were the bedrock of survival, and this was no different. Nearly a whole season and he'd barely even thought of his real name, let alone spoken it. What was a name but a means of reference, anyway? It followed the form, not the other way around... and the form of the man in his skin was not a mercenary, sellsword, torturer, slaver, and ganger graduated from Sunberth and Kenash... but a simple hunter and outcast, rescued by the Pridesun Pavilion.

May Jonas rot in the hells with a spike up his arse, he added mentally, spitting to one side for good measure.

"Godda' feelin' youse wouldnae shut up even if I did," he said, injecting just enough mirth into his cold gaze that the Myrian would be confused as to whether or not he was joking. "So where's that leave us, eh?"

Still practicing, by the look of things. The Myrian may have had a serious case of verbal dysentery, but gods, he could shoot. Konrad had seen Drykas do better, but that was hardly fair: the horse petchers came out the womb with arrows in their teeth and their bows already loaded and strumming into the air. The Myrian fired one arrow, then another, holding a third ready to go with his drawing hand... and seemed unsatisfied with his last shot.

Konrad snorted softly. Unhappy, Turrin was, with an arrow straight through his enemy's heart. How could that be a bad shot?

Because it wasn't what he aimed at, he reminded himself. So it was bad. Little narrow of a definition, but it still makes sense.

"Yeah, I can really see youse have a problem," Konrad drawled with a roll of his eyes, then focused back on his own shot. "Be glad y'can hit what yer target-"

TWANG

Another thunk, but not quite as meaty... or on target. Instead of guts or lungs or heart, Konrad's arrow veered to the left and smacked into the target's wooden arm, wobbling in place ad he glared. Well, the sod wouldn't be using that arm any time soon, at least. Until he snapped off the shaft and got back to business, anyway.

Konrad knew that feeling of old, too. Arrows could be a bastard and a good man with a bow was a killer at a hundred paces... but you had to put them in the right place. In the roar and rush of battle, with half the cast drunk or drugged and the other half mad off the chemicals flooding their blood and reason, a sharp stick in your arm or leg wouldn't matter much.

"Not bad," he managed, in the tongue of his fa... whatever. "Not good, but could be worse."

[Turrin]

The Inarta caught Hansel's comment about him never shutting up and started to chuckle. He knew it was true now. In Wind Reach, he hardly talked to anyone because half the time people wanted to challenge or persecute him because he looked like a Myrian, or they were to frightened or intimated at his position to approach him. He had to admit after his families death. Life in the volcano city was quite lonely if it wasn't for Aponivi and Drusilla the half breed would have left his mother's homeland years ago. Now he was free of the old chains of his past life, and he finally able to express himself with other people. Hansel didn't seem like the most sociable man in the world. Probably because of his tough past. Regardless, he did enjoy talking to people. It was a refreshing feeling for the man. Looking at Hansel, Turrin said with chuckle, “Sorry I am like a bird about a bell before dawn. You wish they would shut up, but they never do.” The hunter thought about his question for a tick and said simply, “Unlike a bird if you want me to shut up, so you can focus. I will.”

Turrin looked over at him when he made the snarky comment about him missing his target with his new arrow grip. The endal said with a nod, “I was working a arrow gripping technique, so I could grip multiple arrows in the shooting hand to increase my rate of firing.” Showing him his hand, he wiggled his middle and his ring finger and said, “It might be to advanced for you at the moment, but in theory, if I can fire my first arrow with my middle and ring finger. I can hold a second arrow with my index finger and thumb. The less movement to my quiver to retrieve another arrow will increase my survivability in long range and close range combat.”

Turrin did catch his comment about not shooting with a bow if they get into close range and take out a melee weapon. It would be his strategy to normally, but he getting talented with his short bow. What if he can fight at short range with it? It will be something that he will need to work in time. Looking at Hansel, Turrin said with a smile, “When I was a Endal in Wind Reach, I had to deal with poachers from time to time in the Unforgiving. It would be my normal strategy of sending those petchers to dine with Dira with my talon sword, but if I can kill a multiple men at ten or five paces without pulling my sword. It would be ideal. Eventually, it will help me develop a method to move and shoot at the same time.”

Turrin realizing that he was vocally killing people in a public place like a man would butter a piece of bread. The warrior didn't care. He did notice a woman who knew common give him a dirty look as she walked past him. The hunter said with a shrug, “Regardless, if my aim suffers for a time, but I can gain a new skill over my enemy. I will survive, and they will be dead.”

Watching Hansel shot, Turrin noticed that his stance was to narrow. It was probably why his shot was off target to much movement in his torso will throw his arm off and aim off. He wasn't sure if Hansel was the type of man who wanted advice from a stranger. Getting into his stance, Turrin was solid as a tree. He knew if he started moving and shooting. He wouldn't have such a ridged stance. The control would be in the arms and less of the torso and the legs. Pulling a arrow out of his quiver with his middle and ring finger, Turrin notched against the string of his short-bow. Lifting the bow till the arrow tip lines up with the stomach of the dummy, Turrin pulled back the bowstring to his cheek and readjusted his aim back to the target. Releasing the bowstring, the arrow whistled as it soared through the air towards the target. The arrow plunged into the middle of the abdomen.

[Konrad Venger]

The scarred man chuckled after Turrin spoke, though likely not for the reason he assumed. The Unforgiving, Konrad repeated in his own head, mental snort matching the one that leaked into the humid air. Yep, if ever you want to tell people not to petching go somewhere, there ain't many better names you could go for.

Taut string thummed, there was the brief whoosh-whistle of an arrow in flight and with a snap of his head, Konrad followed the flight of Turrin's arrow-

-and glared mildly at the way it stuck, close to center, in the target. Better than most he'd managed so far, and the half-breed wasn't even trying hard.

Focus. Experiment. Try new things. What you're doing now clearly ain't working.

He watched Turrin as he took his shot. Noticed how his feet were wider than his own, and when he drew back on his bow... yes, he could feel the unsteadiness in his upper body. The way the tension in the bow was wobbling into his arms, his shoulders, his back. He squinted down the shaft and saw the tip swaying, wiggling, not resting easily over the heart of the target.

Case in bloody point.

His feet shuffled across the grass. Flexed until they found their niche on the firing line... and he smirked. Much better. He pulled the arrow back until the goose feathers tickled under his eye, and the string was almost caressing his cheek. Konrad breathed. Held it... and on the exhale, when his muscles relaxed and the wavering arrow was still-

TWANG

THUNK

"Heh... better." He nodded as he watched the arrow wobble in the right lung of the target. That one would take a little longer, but the man in question wouldn't be coming after him soon, battle-lust or not. "Not as easy t'do that when some other cunny's shootin' at you, though."

All around the pair, Drykas shot and reloaded and grumbled and bragged. A whole rank of them, eagerly sharpening their skills for this test of strength and ability to come. Konrad knew that, of course, but he did not care to compete. He was there only for himself, to improve his own craft. With his bare hands, with his sword, even with the minor menageries of blades he carried on him, he was comfortable. But the work of yew and string he carried... that needed work.

And living here, with the horse petchers, you better know how to use it.

"Turrin, wunnit?"

When the dark-skinned man turned to Konrad again, it would be for the last time. The scarred man was already getting ready to leave. He marched to his target and claimed his arrows, barely slowing as he passed Turrin. Although, if nothing else, there was a tip of his hat... and a slow smile that looked halfway-humorous on a face anything but.

"Until that day."

An old saying, in a relatively new language. A Myrian expression, farewell and threat both. Until we meet again, or we kill each other. Konrad knew the original, just like he knew the few dozen other Myrian words stamped into his mind. But he did not speak them. Not to Turrin. Not to anyone, save the air when he was angry.

But if not the words, then the message. That's what he left Turrin with, as he walked away, bow over his shoulder.

Don't Make Me Repeat Myself.