Solo Death to the teeth and claws

[Valo]

51st Winter 512 AV Later evening On the door step of Valo's house One foot in front of the other, between which the bow was lodged. Its bottom limb pressed firmly against the knee. The elasticity in wood, allowing a certain force to be applied in order to bend the limbs just enough for the string to return into its proper position. And truth it was, that Valo struggled for a moment, slowly bending the limbs with both his arms and his legs. The entirety of his body working in order to apply as even a forces as humanly possible and eventually, with surprising ease, the string merely slipped onto the upper limb, forming once again the perfect arched shape that a bow should possess. Valo collapsed onto his door step, though he was nowhere near exhausted. For he had done very little that day, it seemed. A rather unpleasant conversation took place with a woman he was not at all fond of; a trip to the library had proven unfruitful for after that very conversation he had lost all need to read. And he had spent the afternoon painting abstract of colour and tone that perhaps could have rooted it's inspiration in the many landscaped he had witnessed during his years of travelling. Paintings of impasto, now loitered in their very expressionism and disarray, by the hearth where the thick coats of oil paint, applied with anything but fine brushes and awaited the drying. A total of two canvases which were mere explosions of an artistic mind than accurate representations of anything. As the evening drew to completion and the streets began to shimmer in orange hues by the fire of street lamps and the glistening fur of rats that scurried beneath his feet, The artist could not sleep. That was perhaps what drew him to the replacing of his heirloom's string, which he had been meaning to do for just over a year now. Suffice to say he'd been lacking in practice again. Luckily he was in Zeltiva now, however ugly it was with the sickness and the death roaming the streets so freely, for if his sister Tora was to find out of his laziness, then the young Inarta artist would never hear the end of it. Thus, for a prolonged moment he stared at the dark, red tinted, even is ever so extremely subtly. Eyes of muted emerald observed the weapon with such unbreakable, almost meditative focus. For he had painted it so many times before and each time he could not believe how beautiful and elegant the weapon was. One that had once belonged to his mother, now in the hands of her first born, out of wedlock. The form was exquisite. Such fluidity to the profound curvature of the limbs, the smoothness of the centre by which he found his anchor point each time he shot. And the tip of each limb was ever so slightly curved outwards where the sting lingered. So smooth it was and perfect. A finely crafted weapon. Valo's fingers fan across the wood, taking into account the texture of the polished surface that remained so, even after so many years. The colouring, now radiating it's subtle red tints in the light of the street lamps. He didn't know how long he had spent looking at it, but when the gears of his mind finally rolled back into reality, he was in a state of complete peace, much like the times he'd spent meditation - or at least trying to meditate- as a child. A very deep serenity that sprouted in the acceptance and observation. And with this realisation, the artist also came to notice that his posture, now an innate behaviour of his, had remained as perfect as that of the weapon in his hand, despite the lack of concentration upon it. Breathing tidal, regular and natural. He truly loved this state of his. A state of peace. The street was silence, the air was silence, all was silence to him now. A silence that was suddenly broken by the scurrying and scratching of tiny feet upon cobble. The sound of a little creature that made it's way across the paved road, halting in a crevice to sniff about, before coming to the realisation that nothing interesting lingered within it and swiftly moving to yet another crevice. And as the artist's eyes observed its psychotic twitchy movement and the admirable speed with which it moved. The very muscle underneath its silvery dark fur, contracting and relaxing, creating folds within the skin with each movement. The anatomy of the rat, much alike the anatomy of anything that moved and lived, was interesting to the artist, even if he had developed a deep hate for the creatures of the plague. Thus he observed it with predatory precision, noting the metallic glow to its fur, the perpetually twitching of the whiskers and the very manner with which it raised its head repeatedly and listened out for predators. Undisturbed, it bounced with urgency backwards and forwards before the artist. He observed the way the tail provided it with so much fluidity and balance to its movement, counteracting the weight of its fat body. Such strange a creature was the rat. Perhaps even beautiful, if not for the ugly demise if brought upon everyone it touched. The rat of the plague. The artist gripped the bow at the anchor point, bringing it before him at an arm's length. Arrow knocked onto the string, in line with there his hand was. A moving target was perhaps a wonderful challenge to practice on. And as the rat hastily went about its business, Valo took his time to steady the position of the arrow and resting it upon his thumb where the head now lingered in line with the furry creature. And every time the rat would change location, so did the arrow head. With slender fingers, Valo adjusted the knocking point so that the arrow was perfectly horizontal with the position upon which it rested. That seemed to be the perpetual problem with his shots. And rotation the bow just a little bit to the side, his thumb and the wood created a crevice into twitch the shaft fit in snugly. Many times before, he forgot this important step, leading the arrow to flu from its position once he moved back the bow string. A clawed hand grasped the string with the knocking point between two fingers. The limbs began bending back as the string was retracted. The bow brought up a little higher so that the artist could work on his aim of the rat. The retraction, not slow, yet not too fast either to prevent muscle fatigue. It was a hard task, keeping the arrow in line during this moment, especially for a novice like him, for Valo was nowhere near exquisitely proficient in the art of archery. A moment to breathe out; indulge in the clarity and the peace of his mind. A moment to observe the movement of the rat as it once more lifted its head. Bead like black eyes surveyed it's surrounding, blissfully unaware of the scarlet haired man that sat across the road with a bow at hand, the arrow head pointed at the creature with precision. And the moment the rat lowered its head, dipping the nose into another crevice in the cobbles, Valo's chest tightened and the arrow was released, flexing though the air with admirable speed. Propelled with impact. Of course he did not hit the rat, but merely watched it scurry off in a state of mere panic as the arrow thrust into the cobbles, creating a little flip and falling flat on the ground with a muffled twang. And it lay there, inanimate and lifeless. The rat returning, it's little claws upon the wooden shaft as if to mock Valo with its very boldness. The artist breathed out only after realising he had somewhat forgotten to breath. But there was already another arrow in his hand, as he knocked it onto the string of the bow. He wasn't that quick to give up, even if it meant wasting the night away, shooting at the pavement unsuccessfully. There was a certain bliss about the action. A certain prolonging of his inner tranquillity for the very motion of shooting, the very unity he felt with his weapon, despite the lack of proficiency at actually using it successfully, was something he had grown a love for. A reminder of his old life in Wind Reach which he missed. The loving sisters he longed for and the mother who loved him so. But above all, for the first time since the very start of this pestilence, or at least the announcement of it, Valo had ceased to feel helpless. Armed with his short bow, he was truly not helpless. Perhaps useless to an extent, but not helpless. As, with a degree of effort, the bow string was pulled back again, another shot was fired. This one however fell short of the creature, for he had forgotten to take account the impact of gravity on travelling projectiles. He had read about it in a book somewhere, a very long times ago and truth it was that back then he didn't really understand the meaning of vectors and the like. The horizontal and the vertical vectors of the velocity of a travelling projectile. In short, the greater the distance, the more the aim needs to be adjusted, bearing in mind the impact of gravity upon the arrow. A mistake he did not repeat with the next shot, also missing the courageous rat, but this time not by such great magnitude. As the rat scurried off into the darkness, around the nearby corner and into the next alley, Valo strolled over to retrieve his three arrows. It seemed that the creature was no longer amused by this game, not prepared to take its chances with the novice archer with a very bad aim. And he couldn't blame it. Perhaps if someone was shooting at Valo himself with such pitiful skill, he would only spend so much time mocking the archer, before too scurrying off, much like the rat did. But instead of returning indoors, Valo sat cross legged upon his door step again. Feeling the cold of the stone that now caressed his posterior though the thick fabric of his woollen pants. The scarf wrapped around the lower portion of his face, covering the slender nose that now turned as red as his hair, bitten at spitefully by the teeth of frost. The grey jacket was wound around him and a black cape covered it for an extra layer to combat the perpetual chill of winter. The muscle of his body now settled after their workout with the elegant weapon and the rat, radiating warmth into the fabric that retained it. Perhaps it was utmost reckless on his behalf, so sit in front of his house in such a fashion. But somehow the thought had not occurred to him. He had no money. Hair tucked under the black hood so that he almost became at one with the black hues of the night. And he had no money on him. The bow and the four arrows that he possessed now joined him beneath the cape, slung tactfully across his shoulder and loitering on his lap. Valo's eyes relaxed and the lids closed. All senses but sight became acute to the surroundings. Hearing, smell and the very self-awareness became sharper as he lingered in a meditative pose. Back straight, one foot in front of another so that the heel touched the knee ever so slightly. Elbows suspended in air, palms inverted upwards, joined by thumbs in the centre of his posture, laying comfortably at the height of his lower abdomen. Breathing regulated. The artist made full use of his diaphragm, causing it to inflate and deflate his lungs until the action became almost completely unconscious and all that could be seen, if not for the cloak that disguised him, was his abdomen raising and falling. A certain serenity with the motion, like the rise and fall of the tides. And as that very action became natural, his concentration upon it lessened and relaxation washed over him like a great wave. Silence was all that remained around him, as if the streets themselves were humming this very silence. The kind of noise that didn't really exist. Noise that could only be called by the name of silence. And when a couple of streets across some poor, unfortunate soul would scurry home, much like the rats beneath their feet, or a cart would drive past with the sharp clicking of hooves upon cobble, all the noise that formed would blend into the silence much like one tone of paint blended into another on the canvas Zeltiva. Silence, a mantra playing over in Valo head. The word, silence, silence, silence. The very constant repetition of it, until that action too became natural and innate. His mind hummed the mantra silently, in rhythms with his breathing until the very motion, each breath that he took hummed it. And in this silence of his, Valo relaxed further, as time passed. With every breath it seemed, that his mind lost attachment to his body. A numbing sensation in his head. A feeling that was burned somewhere deep inside of his brain. He spend a log time coming to this very equilibrium with himself for his proficiency at meditation was perhaps little greater than the archery. None the less however, finally there was escapism within him, a calm and tranquillity that he longed for, before the next stage could commence. And, much unlike in the days of his childhood, he cared not for the time he spent meditating and allowed not frustration, or annoyance or any other such emotion penetrate though him and disrupt this tranquil state. Slowly the clutter from his head subsided to the silent mantra, slowly all thought, along with the few signs of life in Zeltiva at this time, blended into this silent hum of the streets. This is where Valo began observing his environment though closed eyes. Observing it with the second most acute sense he possessed which was in fact his auditory sense. Smell and taste and touch would soon accompany. He could feel the biting cold of winter air that bit at the exposed skin around his cheeks and sent subtle waves of shiver across his arms periodically. He now focused on this chill sensation, instead of the silence. Shifting his focus very slowly, coming to the realisation gradually with each breath. And soon the humming mantra of silence ceased and had been replaced by the chill. but he was not angry at the chill, nor did he wish it wasn't there. There was nothing but acceptance, which he had spent so long practising. And much alike the word silence, the word cold began repeating over and over in his head. A mantra of cold, cold, cold, cold... The aim was to let go of this cold. To acknowledge it and let it go, much like he had previously did with negative thoughts, feelings and the like. Only this was much harder. the banishing of the sensation was the banishing of something physical, not psychological and that was so much more difficult to do. Much like the silence could not be banished, the cold refused to leave him too. Thus, after a very long time of passively trying to do so, his attention returned to the silence. This time however he began growing much more receptive to the individual noises of the street. He was a lucky man that evening, for no cut throat criminal had been roaming his neighbourhood that no bone crusher or silver tongue wished to cause him harm. Zeltiva was a dangerous place, with its fair share of thieves and cut throats, after all. And what he had been doing for a substantial amount of time now had been reckless indeed. A lucky man, who perhaps needed some more sense bashed into him. It was the scratching upon cobbles that had eventually reached his ears. The sound of rats which plagued the city. It seemed that in the past days their numbers have risen substantially which was only a statement to the atrocity that had been raging thought the streets. the terrible pestilence that murdered people as if they were flies, dropping on the windowsills of death one by one. And without a moment's hesitation, Valo retrieved his short bow and with slender fingers, knocked an arrow onto the string. Eyes snapping open to witness little more than a band of rats, popping in and out of the shadows as if they were playing some elaborate game. Their little noses sniffing everything with utmost haste. The little claws scratching the cobbles. From beneath the black cloak, his arm raised, adjusting the position of the arrow once more so that it was stuck in that crevice between his hand and the wood of the bow. Eyes quickly picking a target. Calm mind, isolating a single rat that moved slower than the rest, for it had only three feet to itself. The remaining one was missing. The arrow head pointed at it awaited the halting of the creature, before the clawed hand would pull back the bow string once more. A subtle vibration from Valo's arms as the exertion of the motion took its toll on his muscle. Soon enough however, the creature did halt, nose stuck between two cobbles, tiny flaws reaching for something within the depths. That was the precise moment that the artist released the bow string, propelling the projectile into the air with an aim better than usual. Frightened, the creature scurried off into the darkness as the arrow missed it's small body. Another unsuccessful shot and an arrow that lay idly on the cobbles across the street. The rats however did not give up and returned time and time again. And each time they returned, Valo took another shot and then another one. Breaking his position only to retrieve the arrows. He had perhaps repeated this action until the night was in fool blood, with Leth hovering high in the sky, its pale crescent of a face illuminating the city. Shot after shot. Relentless repetition until his muscles ached and Valo had finally had enough. And though he had not shot a single rat that night, for they proved to be too small and too mobile a target, he had improved his aim somewhat. Retained the knowledge he gained from all those practices as a child. An evening well wasted.

[Cloud]

XP Reward!

From the sky falls your reward!

PC Name: Valo

Experience

Skill	XP Earned
Weapon: Short Bow	+3
Meditation	+3
Observation	+2

Lores

•	Lore Earned
•	Rat: Moving Target
•	A Rat's Movement Patterns
•	Aiming and Distance
•	Silence is Golden
•	Memories of Practice

Notes :

Reading through I saw that there were a few errors, mainly just with misspells and a missing letter somewhere. Normally a quick review would help find these, other then that though good work!

All rats must die! This was a thread I thoroughly enjoyed reading. It showed a bit of what Valo was like the and now, I definitely look forward to seeing more.