41st Spring 502AV
13 years old
Noon
Archery Range
If one this was certain about the boy Valo, is that his ability to keep his temper in check was regrettably not his most proficient skill. Often he'd get fed up when things id not go as planned, especially during his younger years.
That afternoon he decided to take up the bow again and to sneak from his house and practice in the archery field for, even if he'd never be an Endal, skills were useful. Too often adults would brag to him about how easy it is to learn different skills as a child. About how easy everything is then. To an unteempered mind, learning is a joy, but to an adult it is hard work. And in his naivety, he believed every word and believe how simple it would be to learn archery too. Besides, one day he would leave Wind Reach and there seemed no batter place in the whole of Mizahar to learn this particular skills, so why not make the most of it whilst he still had the time? A personal goal to learns as many skills as possible.
The target was an enemy of his, looming in the distance mockingly. Eyeing him with that red eye as if to spit in his face. To yell failure at the boy who tried so very hard at all he did. But surrender was not an option. He would not kneel before the enemy and he would not succumb to frustration. His mother's bow at hand, an arrow knocked on. Emeralds for eyes, they gleamed from beneath his grow with predatory gleams. If the target could bleed, he would make it bleed. A warrior's breath in his chest, violence within him, self assurance that this time would go so much better than any other. After all, whenever he watched others shoot, it seemed so simple, surely it was only a matter of time before he too would become a master. Archery would be just like art. It would come to him easily, he was sure of it.
Of course it was the arrogance in his glare, the boldness in his mind that would end this day in bitterness, for young Valo had such little comprehension of how difficult the task at hand truly was.
He had worked out his anchor point now. A firm grasp on it, in the central part of the short bow. A strangling of the dark wood with his grip, which was placed just ever so slightly lower than the mid point to facilitate the arrow as it rested upon his thumb. The weapon pointing downwards as his right hand grasped at an arrow by his feet, a gentle movement of knocking it onto a point on the bow string. The motion of his thumb, placing the subtle notch which was carved into the rear of the arrow, directly on the string, before raising the weapon with a degree of grace to his movement. His first shot of the day. Surely - for he was so very sure of this - he'd hit the bull's eye first time.
A moment to observe the target as if it was game, blissfully and ignorantly frolicking in the forests of Kalea. Oblivious to the hunter's presence. The red dot straight in the middle, from which rinds rippled. The weapon now pointed straight at it. One eyes closed. Arm which bore the bow now extended, clenching tightly. He slowed down his breathing, elevating his rib cage in tidal breath that he practised before. A tranquillity overcoming him. The childish imagination took over and suddenly he was in his own little world of adventure and the archery range was no longer around him as all in sight was wild and untamed environment. And that target was a deer that happily chewed upon the undergrowth. And in the bushed, disguised like a hunter should, completely silent and focused, was little Valo who's imagination was as wild as this real of his fantasy. He would strike down the pretend deer and he should be victorious.
Fingers gently pulled and pushed at the arrow's rear, adjusting the anchor point until he was positive that it lingered in straight line with the top of his thumb upon which it lay dormant. One more silent breath before, with all his slender might,he began pulling at the string. The that action itself proved difficult to his barely trained muscle and he gripped his teeth and with all the might that ever resided in his body, he finally pulled the bow string beyond his shoulder into almost a full flexing. But only almost.
He had kept the bow level, vertical in his grip and to his horror, Valo found that the arrow which lay so obediently upon his skin as a prerequisite to this, had now nothing but slipped and flown into the air, breaking any contact with the weapon apart from that at the knocking point at which his slender fingers held it desperately. Why did this happen? Desperately trying to steer the projectile back into place, the arrow finally fell from his fingers and landed with a twang upon the grass. Why did it not stay in place as it seemed with every other archer he ever watched? What was he doing wrong? Valo cursed beneath his breath so that no soul would hear him. the mists of his fantasy dissolving, the game frolicking, startled by his failure and no doubt mocking him. Not it was just a stationary target, standing proud in mockery.
Reluctant to give up, the boy tried it again. The adjusting of it. The knocking of the arrow, the pulling back of the bow string... and all much to the same result. And again he tried and again he failed. And again it dropped to the floor as pathetically as the first time. By that time he'd grown more than impatient, as the threads of frustration enticed him and his teeth gritted together at his lack of understanding why such took place. A burning feeling in his chest. A wish to kick something for his temper was as fiery as his hair. Valo, who was so used to being the genius, for his mother had never wasted a day to forget to tell him that, now could simply not grasp this. Why would the arrow not stay at his clenched thumb like it was suppose to? Why would it sly away in such an awkward manner?
As quickly as his irritation was ignited, the boy took a deep breath to calm himself again. And perhaps not completely calm,the flames of determination, the blue ones - for within the musings of his internal monologues and metaphors, Valo always imagines determination to be blue, just like jealousy would be yellow and greed would be a pinky purple. Emotions were colour to him often for colour is the way he revelled in figurative description - burned stronger than the orange-red flames of irritation and frustration. A step back. "Think about this logically Valo." the boy told himself in a manner in which he often expected adults to talk to seem grown up. A self reminder.
And logically is how he thought. Bow at hand again, arrow knocked upon the string and fingers pulling it back, though the claw was clenched and reluctant to let go of the arrow posterior in case it would fly away. And, as expected, it did. But this time, in an abrupt state of panic and the reluctance to so simply let it go, the boy moved his other hand. His left once, tilting the bow about the axis of the anchor point so that his thumb now formed a groove with the wood of the weapon. And as that groove formed, the arrow swung back in the direction of the wood, settling into that groove, no longer at liberty to so simply fly away. Just a little tilt, yet what a difference it made. The boy's hear leaped in self satisfaction. Like many great discoveries - for there could not be a greater discovery in the world than that made by little Valo. Yes, the boy did hold himself in great esteem - this one too was found by accident. A simple rotation, but what a result.
Again the forest was around him and again he was a hunter, stalking down a deer for dinner. Everything returned back into position. His arm pulled at the string until it passed his shoulder again. not with enough force to extend it all the way, yet having a pretty good go at it anyway. A subtle pain in his limbs as he shook from the exercise. One eyes closed as he expected so idealistically to be the case. Posture perfect, back straight. Surely this would be the perfect show. He just knew it. he could feel it in every trembling bone of his body.
Valo's left arm swayed in loops. A great difficulty with which he so meticulously tried to line the tip of the arrow with the bull's eye. but each time he did so, it somehow managed to sway away under the tensile force of the weapon, the difficulty in holing it with such a force to his limbs. And with every moment he pulled the bowstring back, his arms shook all the more until alas, tired and disenchanted, he could hold the position no longer and released, relinquishing the bow downwards with the arrow still knocked on. Why was this so very painful? Surely he was practically bending wood, but it seemed so simple when others did it, as if no effort was put into it. Valo wasn't the strongest of boys. Twiddly arms, slender build. He was a boy of art not archery. But archery is what he needed to master.
Thus again he pulled up the bow, adjusting the arrow and again his inability to hold it for the sufficient time to aim, had bit him on the ankles. And the action repeated once more, and then again once more, much to the same effect. Once more time, this time focusing on all his might, until his arms ached, having forgotten completely about the rotation of the bow and the arrow so very casually, as if to voice it's mockery of him, dropped to the floor with a twang. A moan of frustration from him, having forsaken his imagination completely now, bathing in flames of red and orange hues. The flames of juvenile irritation. Time passed as if it was a rabbit, skidding though open grass land and he had not fired a simple shot. And meticulous was his repetition but it did no good.
Valo placed his bow at his feet and planked himself beside it. A moment of rest and to gather himself. Face red with fumes of annoyance. Why could he not so very simply get it? Why was archery not art? Why could he not learn it simply from the observation of others? he demanded for it to be that easy. He demanded for it to submerge him in his fantasy, to be like it was so often described in books. Effortless. He demanded to have perfect aim and to hit that gleaming red bull's eye every time. To be a master who could shoot an arrow though the centre of another arrow, splitting the wood like banana peel. Yes these were the boy's dreams. This is how he expected it to be and this is what it was not. Truly, he was ready to give up. To quit and stumble home, branding this afternoon as a complete waste of time. To place the bow on the side and never pick it up again. But it would have been against his nature and Valo's nature was a powerful force. Determination of red and orange flame.
After those precious few moments of rest, again he rose to his feet, keeping the knocking point of the arrow as perfect as he could, balancing it in the crevice of the rotated bow. Anchor point sturdy. Clawed hand pulling back as the bow string with all his might. An abrupt breathe in and holding that breath so that intervention of movement to his main would be limited. A predatory determination. His limbs trembling but the boy worked hard to steady them at least a little. And a little they steadied, yet not enough. But this time his aim was haphazard and the arrow was released, flexing though the air before landing in the very base of the target. But it was not impaled in it, instead bounced away and landed on the floor. Another curse at his lips, subdues, yes, but foul language none the less. One day he would learn not to use such words, but in his young age, little Valo took his liberty with words, especially when no prying ears listened. His mother would not find out.
In all honesty, Valo's aim was bad. Very bad. For despite all this practice he still held little proficiency in archery and alas he could do nothing else than repeat. Repeat repeat repeat. The knocking of the arrow onto the string, meticulous adjusting. The pulling back of the bow string until physically his arms hurt. Not once could he hit the bull's eye. Or even come close to it for that matter. Often he'd forget to tilt the weapon, resulting in the arrow flying off from him and dropping haphazard. Each time it was as vulgar and mocking, a motion as before. Hours passed but he did not give up, no matter how tempting that prospect was. Perhaps it was his determination, or so he liked to tell himself. In reality, the boy was simply a proud creature. No piece of wood, no red spotted vagabond would overcome him, for he was not to be overcome.
Horizontal arrow, for when his muscles were not put to strain, he took meticulous care with the positioning. A moment to straighten his posture for it seemed so very important. Back straight, as if a correcting corset was wound around him, positioning his spine in precisely the right way. A sturdy base of his feet. The short bow once again raised before him, grasped in an extended arm. The other, clawed, pulling back the bow string as far as he could, little less each time as tiredness attempted to subdue him as if the feeling itself was some lustful courtesan. He was too young however and too proud to succumb to such. Teeth gripped, tidal breath, as he practised so many times before.
One eye closed, the other open and before that eye, the tip of the arrow swayed backwards and forwards. The holding of breath until red flush came to his pale alabaster cheeks. So desperately did he try to steady it, but what a difficult task that was. Another failure. Disarmed, Valo simply watched as the projectile sliced though the air, almost cleanly, before embedding itself in the very peripheral ring. But at least this time it did not bounce from the target. And again he took the precisely the same steps with the same outcome. Time passed and the quality of his shots ranged between bad, terrible and simply abominable. But an unskilled hand could not simply know such a skill. It would be learned over countless failures and perhaps, between those, little gems of better shots would loom in time. For not however, he was to stay at a novice level.
As little Valo grew tired, so his technique, if technique was an appropriate word to name it, grew slack. A plural forgetting to adjust the knocking paint, leaving it not horizontal in line with his thumb. And often he shot higher than he wanted, or lower, straight into the ground with a sharp twang. A painful moan of the arrow. Regrettably, it took him a fair few tries to realise he was doing it wrong, but alas that too was corrected.
He had kept at this until the late hour of the evening. Preparing his bow, taking his aim and shooting. Each time watching the arrow either plant itself into the rings of the target, or simply missing all together. Often falling short as he frequently forgot to take gravity into consideration when perfecting his aim. Often that aim was a tragedy in it's purest form. But still he wouldn't so simply give up. And eventually his training bore some fruit, even if just the smallest and simplest kind. For he would no longer forget to rotate his bow in order to keep that arrow from flying from his hands. At least some improvement.
13 years old
Noon
Archery Range
If one this was certain about the boy Valo, is that his ability to keep his temper in check was regrettably not his most proficient skill. Often he'd get fed up when things id not go as planned, especially during his younger years.
That afternoon he decided to take up the bow again and to sneak from his house and practice in the archery field for, even if he'd never be an Endal, skills were useful. Too often adults would brag to him about how easy it is to learn different skills as a child. About how easy everything is then. To an unteempered mind, learning is a joy, but to an adult it is hard work. And in his naivety, he believed every word and believe how simple it would be to learn archery too. Besides, one day he would leave Wind Reach and there seemed no batter place in the whole of Mizahar to learn this particular skills, so why not make the most of it whilst he still had the time? A personal goal to learns as many skills as possible.
The target was an enemy of his, looming in the distance mockingly. Eyeing him with that red eye as if to spit in his face. To yell failure at the boy who tried so very hard at all he did. But surrender was not an option. He would not kneel before the enemy and he would not succumb to frustration. His mother's bow at hand, an arrow knocked on. Emeralds for eyes, they gleamed from beneath his grow with predatory gleams. If the target could bleed, he would make it bleed. A warrior's breath in his chest, violence within him, self assurance that this time would go so much better than any other. After all, whenever he watched others shoot, it seemed so simple, surely it was only a matter of time before he too would become a master. Archery would be just like art. It would come to him easily, he was sure of it.
Of course it was the arrogance in his glare, the boldness in his mind that would end this day in bitterness, for young Valo had such little comprehension of how difficult the task at hand truly was.
He had worked out his anchor point now. A firm grasp on it, in the central part of the short bow. A strangling of the dark wood with his grip, which was placed just ever so slightly lower than the mid point to facilitate the arrow as it rested upon his thumb. The weapon pointing downwards as his right hand grasped at an arrow by his feet, a gentle movement of knocking it onto a point on the bow string. The motion of his thumb, placing the subtle notch which was carved into the rear of the arrow, directly on the string, before raising the weapon with a degree of grace to his movement. His first shot of the day. Surely - for he was so very sure of this - he'd hit the bull's eye first time.
A moment to observe the target as if it was game, blissfully and ignorantly frolicking in the forests of Kalea. Oblivious to the hunter's presence. The red dot straight in the middle, from which rinds rippled. The weapon now pointed straight at it. One eyes closed. Arm which bore the bow now extended, clenching tightly. He slowed down his breathing, elevating his rib cage in tidal breath that he practised before. A tranquillity overcoming him. The childish imagination took over and suddenly he was in his own little world of adventure and the archery range was no longer around him as all in sight was wild and untamed environment. And that target was a deer that happily chewed upon the undergrowth. And in the bushed, disguised like a hunter should, completely silent and focused, was little Valo who's imagination was as wild as this real of his fantasy. He would strike down the pretend deer and he should be victorious.
Fingers gently pulled and pushed at the arrow's rear, adjusting the anchor point until he was positive that it lingered in straight line with the top of his thumb upon which it lay dormant. One more silent breath before, with all his slender might,he began pulling at the string. The that action itself proved difficult to his barely trained muscle and he gripped his teeth and with all the might that ever resided in his body, he finally pulled the bow string beyond his shoulder into almost a full flexing. But only almost.
He had kept the bow level, vertical in his grip and to his horror, Valo found that the arrow which lay so obediently upon his skin as a prerequisite to this, had now nothing but slipped and flown into the air, breaking any contact with the weapon apart from that at the knocking point at which his slender fingers held it desperately. Why did this happen? Desperately trying to steer the projectile back into place, the arrow finally fell from his fingers and landed with a twang upon the grass. Why did it not stay in place as it seemed with every other archer he ever watched? What was he doing wrong? Valo cursed beneath his breath so that no soul would hear him. the mists of his fantasy dissolving, the game frolicking, startled by his failure and no doubt mocking him. Not it was just a stationary target, standing proud in mockery.
Reluctant to give up, the boy tried it again. The adjusting of it. The knocking of the arrow, the pulling back of the bow string... and all much to the same result. And again he tried and again he failed. And again it dropped to the floor as pathetically as the first time. By that time he'd grown more than impatient, as the threads of frustration enticed him and his teeth gritted together at his lack of understanding why such took place. A burning feeling in his chest. A wish to kick something for his temper was as fiery as his hair. Valo, who was so used to being the genius, for his mother had never wasted a day to forget to tell him that, now could simply not grasp this. Why would the arrow not stay at his clenched thumb like it was suppose to? Why would it sly away in such an awkward manner?
As quickly as his irritation was ignited, the boy took a deep breath to calm himself again. And perhaps not completely calm,the flames of determination, the blue ones - for within the musings of his internal monologues and metaphors, Valo always imagines determination to be blue, just like jealousy would be yellow and greed would be a pinky purple. Emotions were colour to him often for colour is the way he revelled in figurative description - burned stronger than the orange-red flames of irritation and frustration. A step back. "Think about this logically Valo." the boy told himself in a manner in which he often expected adults to talk to seem grown up. A self reminder.
And logically is how he thought. Bow at hand again, arrow knocked upon the string and fingers pulling it back, though the claw was clenched and reluctant to let go of the arrow posterior in case it would fly away. And, as expected, it did. But this time, in an abrupt state of panic and the reluctance to so simply let it go, the boy moved his other hand. His left once, tilting the bow about the axis of the anchor point so that his thumb now formed a groove with the wood of the weapon. And as that groove formed, the arrow swung back in the direction of the wood, settling into that groove, no longer at liberty to so simply fly away. Just a little tilt, yet what a difference it made. The boy's hear leaped in self satisfaction. Like many great discoveries - for there could not be a greater discovery in the world than that made by little Valo. Yes, the boy did hold himself in great esteem - this one too was found by accident. A simple rotation, but what a result.
Again the forest was around him and again he was a hunter, stalking down a deer for dinner. Everything returned back into position. His arm pulled at the string until it passed his shoulder again. not with enough force to extend it all the way, yet having a pretty good go at it anyway. A subtle pain in his limbs as he shook from the exercise. One eyes closed as he expected so idealistically to be the case. Posture perfect, back straight. Surely this would be the perfect show. He just knew it. he could feel it in every trembling bone of his body.
Valo's left arm swayed in loops. A great difficulty with which he so meticulously tried to line the tip of the arrow with the bull's eye. but each time he did so, it somehow managed to sway away under the tensile force of the weapon, the difficulty in holing it with such a force to his limbs. And with every moment he pulled the bowstring back, his arms shook all the more until alas, tired and disenchanted, he could hold the position no longer and released, relinquishing the bow downwards with the arrow still knocked on. Why was this so very painful? Surely he was practically bending wood, but it seemed so simple when others did it, as if no effort was put into it. Valo wasn't the strongest of boys. Twiddly arms, slender build. He was a boy of art not archery. But archery is what he needed to master.
Thus again he pulled up the bow, adjusting the arrow and again his inability to hold it for the sufficient time to aim, had bit him on the ankles. And the action repeated once more, and then again once more, much to the same effect. Once more time, this time focusing on all his might, until his arms ached, having forgotten completely about the rotation of the bow and the arrow so very casually, as if to voice it's mockery of him, dropped to the floor with a twang. A moan of frustration from him, having forsaken his imagination completely now, bathing in flames of red and orange hues. The flames of juvenile irritation. Time passed as if it was a rabbit, skidding though open grass land and he had not fired a simple shot. And meticulous was his repetition but it did no good.
Valo placed his bow at his feet and planked himself beside it. A moment of rest and to gather himself. Face red with fumes of annoyance. Why could he not so very simply get it? Why was archery not art? Why could he not learn it simply from the observation of others? he demanded for it to be that easy. He demanded for it to submerge him in his fantasy, to be like it was so often described in books. Effortless. He demanded to have perfect aim and to hit that gleaming red bull's eye every time. To be a master who could shoot an arrow though the centre of another arrow, splitting the wood like banana peel. Yes these were the boy's dreams. This is how he expected it to be and this is what it was not. Truly, he was ready to give up. To quit and stumble home, branding this afternoon as a complete waste of time. To place the bow on the side and never pick it up again. But it would have been against his nature and Valo's nature was a powerful force. Determination of red and orange flame.
After those precious few moments of rest, again he rose to his feet, keeping the knocking point of the arrow as perfect as he could, balancing it in the crevice of the rotated bow. Anchor point sturdy. Clawed hand pulling back as the bow string with all his might. An abrupt breathe in and holding that breath so that intervention of movement to his main would be limited. A predatory determination. His limbs trembling but the boy worked hard to steady them at least a little. And a little they steadied, yet not enough. But this time his aim was haphazard and the arrow was released, flexing though the air before landing in the very base of the target. But it was not impaled in it, instead bounced away and landed on the floor. Another curse at his lips, subdues, yes, but foul language none the less. One day he would learn not to use such words, but in his young age, little Valo took his liberty with words, especially when no prying ears listened. His mother would not find out.
In all honesty, Valo's aim was bad. Very bad. For despite all this practice he still held little proficiency in archery and alas he could do nothing else than repeat. Repeat repeat repeat. The knocking of the arrow onto the string, meticulous adjusting. The pulling back of the bow string until physically his arms hurt. Not once could he hit the bull's eye. Or even come close to it for that matter. Often he'd forget to tilt the weapon, resulting in the arrow flying off from him and dropping haphazard. Each time it was as vulgar and mocking, a motion as before. Hours passed but he did not give up, no matter how tempting that prospect was. Perhaps it was his determination, or so he liked to tell himself. In reality, the boy was simply a proud creature. No piece of wood, no red spotted vagabond would overcome him, for he was not to be overcome.
Horizontal arrow, for when his muscles were not put to strain, he took meticulous care with the positioning. A moment to straighten his posture for it seemed so very important. Back straight, as if a correcting corset was wound around him, positioning his spine in precisely the right way. A sturdy base of his feet. The short bow once again raised before him, grasped in an extended arm. The other, clawed, pulling back the bow string as far as he could, little less each time as tiredness attempted to subdue him as if the feeling itself was some lustful courtesan. He was too young however and too proud to succumb to such. Teeth gripped, tidal breath, as he practised so many times before.
One eye closed, the other open and before that eye, the tip of the arrow swayed backwards and forwards. The holding of breath until red flush came to his pale alabaster cheeks. So desperately did he try to steady it, but what a difficult task that was. Another failure. Disarmed, Valo simply watched as the projectile sliced though the air, almost cleanly, before embedding itself in the very peripheral ring. But at least this time it did not bounce from the target. And again he took the precisely the same steps with the same outcome. Time passed and the quality of his shots ranged between bad, terrible and simply abominable. But an unskilled hand could not simply know such a skill. It would be learned over countless failures and perhaps, between those, little gems of better shots would loom in time. For not however, he was to stay at a novice level.
As little Valo grew tired, so his technique, if technique was an appropriate word to name it, grew slack. A plural forgetting to adjust the knocking paint, leaving it not horizontal in line with his thumb. And often he shot higher than he wanted, or lower, straight into the ground with a sharp twang. A painful moan of the arrow. Regrettably, it took him a fair few tries to realise he was doing it wrong, but alas that too was corrected.
He had kept at this until the late hour of the evening. Preparing his bow, taking his aim and shooting. Each time watching the arrow either plant itself into the rings of the target, or simply missing all together. Often falling short as he frequently forgot to take gravity into consideration when perfecting his aim. Often that aim was a tragedy in it's purest form. But still he wouldn't so simply give up. And eventually his training bore some fruit, even if just the smallest and simplest kind. For he would no longer forget to rotate his bow in order to keep that arrow from flying from his hands. At least some improvement.
