19th of Summer, 515
Speaking
Thinking
Ithuriel
After many, many years of being an Endal, several mishaps with Flight Leaders and working in various flight distinctions, she was being assigned to a flight. She had been up all night, excited about the news she had received yesterday. The overseers of her case had finally found someone interested in taking the pair into a flight. Even with all her problems with authority, clutsy misgivings, and overall seemingly awful performance in the air. Granted, it was still better than some and she had a lot to give when dealing with hunting, festivities, and ingenuity. She had been tinkering with some ideas for new saddles. Ithuriel and her would make a great team if she were allowed to move from time to time without having to scare her eagle.
Having not slept most of the night, Phlox had a lot of energy it seemed when she bolted out of her aerie early that afternoon to head towards the Top Notch Archery Field. She was supposed to meet a few others from her flight this afternoon in a meet and greet with a little trial of skills. She had zero clue as to who they might be, or which distinction she was a part of now, but no matter. Phlox was all about surprises.
The halls blurred past her as she ran about. Her long bow was slung across her back, accentuating the black bryda and vinati she always wore. The fire colored locks waved behind her and the copper arrows clincked lightly against one another on her belly button ring. Finally, she made it to the Top Notch, a few chimes early then when they were supposed to meet.
With all the turmoil the ground shakes had brought, the archery range was full. Endals were busy keeping their skills up between the required shifts of rock moving and maintenance on the tunnels. Taking a breath, she collected herself and walked in with her head held high and shoulder pushed back. No one really watched her, and she didn’t particularly care. Silently she walked through the room, looking around. Of course veteran Endals, much older than she, took the moving targets and left no room for younger warriors. That was fine. Instead she settled for a stationary bullseye in a relatively empty grouping. Only one other man was working, and he seemed to be slowing down with his practice.
Setting her arrows down, as she had not yet gotten a quiver to hold them, she lined herself up with the bullseye. After removing her long bow, she gave it a look over. Dry firing was not permitted, but she did lightly test the string to ensure that it was in good condition. The wood bent with no creaks, inviting her to practice. Phlox then checked her arrows. The fletching was in excellent condition, the shafts beautifully straight, and the tips sharp to the touch. She was careful not to push too hard, as it would have pricked the skin and drawn blood.
Notching the arrow came easy to her, and she laid it across her finger. It was pointed at the ground at first as she flexed the muscles in her arm. It was all about muscle memory, be able to pull an arrow quick, notch it, pull the string taunt, aim, and release for hopefully a perfect kill.
Her mind focused and she looked at the bullseye. The center was the perfect kill. Anything else was not acceptable in her eyes. It was not a kill, but an injury. She pulled the bow up, brought the string to her ear where the fletching lightly graced her cheek. Phlox’s gaze went past the fletching, down the shaft, where the arrow came to a point. Beyond it, the heart of the bullseye. Once she set her focus on it, it was only an extra breath before she loosed the arrow. The string twanged and the arrow thumped into the bullseye, about a hand away from the center. She rolled her head back, aggravated and defeated. It was going to be a long afternoon if this was how she was starting.
Having not slept most of the night, Phlox had a lot of energy it seemed when she bolted out of her aerie early that afternoon to head towards the Top Notch Archery Field. She was supposed to meet a few others from her flight this afternoon in a meet and greet with a little trial of skills. She had zero clue as to who they might be, or which distinction she was a part of now, but no matter. Phlox was all about surprises.
The halls blurred past her as she ran about. Her long bow was slung across her back, accentuating the black bryda and vinati she always wore. The fire colored locks waved behind her and the copper arrows clincked lightly against one another on her belly button ring. Finally, she made it to the Top Notch, a few chimes early then when they were supposed to meet.
With all the turmoil the ground shakes had brought, the archery range was full. Endals were busy keeping their skills up between the required shifts of rock moving and maintenance on the tunnels. Taking a breath, she collected herself and walked in with her head held high and shoulder pushed back. No one really watched her, and she didn’t particularly care. Silently she walked through the room, looking around. Of course veteran Endals, much older than she, took the moving targets and left no room for younger warriors. That was fine. Instead she settled for a stationary bullseye in a relatively empty grouping. Only one other man was working, and he seemed to be slowing down with his practice.
Setting her arrows down, as she had not yet gotten a quiver to hold them, she lined herself up with the bullseye. After removing her long bow, she gave it a look over. Dry firing was not permitted, but she did lightly test the string to ensure that it was in good condition. The wood bent with no creaks, inviting her to practice. Phlox then checked her arrows. The fletching was in excellent condition, the shafts beautifully straight, and the tips sharp to the touch. She was careful not to push too hard, as it would have pricked the skin and drawn blood.
Notching the arrow came easy to her, and she laid it across her finger. It was pointed at the ground at first as she flexed the muscles in her arm. It was all about muscle memory, be able to pull an arrow quick, notch it, pull the string taunt, aim, and release for hopefully a perfect kill.
Her mind focused and she looked at the bullseye. The center was the perfect kill. Anything else was not acceptable in her eyes. It was not a kill, but an injury. She pulled the bow up, brought the string to her ear where the fletching lightly graced her cheek. Phlox’s gaze went past the fletching, down the shaft, where the arrow came to a point. Beyond it, the heart of the bullseye. Once she set her focus on it, it was only an extra breath before she loosed the arrow. The string twanged and the arrow thumped into the bullseye, about a hand away from the center. She rolled her head back, aggravated and defeated. It was going to be a long afternoon if this was how she was starting.
Speaking
Thinking
Ithuriel