Fall 80th, 498 AV
afternoon
The glorified stick arced gracefully through the air, flight as beautiful and true as that of a wounded goose, and came to land with a wooden clatter a full ten feet from where it had been launched from.
The small child was undeterred. His face was still set in the hardened mask of determination that it had worn for hours, seemingly unaffected by the failure. Though, it wasn’t quite clear what “success” would entail; he had thrown it from the top of a small hill into an open yonder. Nevertheless, his steps were solid, speaking of a specific goal that had just been missed, a goal that was just out of his fingers’ reach.
The boy was young, with not even seven winters to his name. He had light brown hair that seemed as if it couldn’t decide if it wanted to be light or dark and his cheeks were round with baby fat that time had not yet managed to strip away. When he picked up the fallen javelin he had to carry it at an angle; the thing was almost as tall as he was, and yet he grasped it with the contentedness of someone who knows that they will learn.
“Why’d you pick it, boy?”
Khasr shrugged. “Why’d you pick your sword?” The little Windheel had become better at navigating the old hunter’s parleying and was beginning to wield it himself.
“I picked my sword because it’s a good weapon. Simple. Easy to use. You hold the end that don’t cut and stick with the end that does. Same with the bow. But your sticks got points on both ends; I’ve seen you stick yourself more times on accident than you’ve stuck targets on purpose.”
Khasr pouted and turned on his heel once he had returned to his original position. Fine. If the old man wanted to be so mean then he could be mean to himself. Khasr didn’t need to listen. And he certainly didn’t need to listen to that smirking chuckle. In fact, he decided that he hadn’t heard it at all.
He planted his feet firmly on the ground and hefted the throwing spear to his shoulder. Even though Daha knew nothing about javelins and so the boy was left to figure things out himself, he had made progress from his first clumsy toss in the Whet Stone. If anything, the boy knew his weapon; he always made sure to grasp it in the middle, where the balance was perfect on either side, and though he may have stuck himself once or twice he had never dropped one or lost his grip. It was his own body that he did not know; once thrown, they never seemed to go where he wanted. Still, he was determined. He would learn.
He leaned back and wound up his arm. He held his breath. He let it fly.
afternoon
The glorified stick arced gracefully through the air, flight as beautiful and true as that of a wounded goose, and came to land with a wooden clatter a full ten feet from where it had been launched from.
The small child was undeterred. His face was still set in the hardened mask of determination that it had worn for hours, seemingly unaffected by the failure. Though, it wasn’t quite clear what “success” would entail; he had thrown it from the top of a small hill into an open yonder. Nevertheless, his steps were solid, speaking of a specific goal that had just been missed, a goal that was just out of his fingers’ reach.
The boy was young, with not even seven winters to his name. He had light brown hair that seemed as if it couldn’t decide if it wanted to be light or dark and his cheeks were round with baby fat that time had not yet managed to strip away. When he picked up the fallen javelin he had to carry it at an angle; the thing was almost as tall as he was, and yet he grasped it with the contentedness of someone who knows that they will learn.
“Why’d you pick it, boy?”
Khasr shrugged. “Why’d you pick your sword?” The little Windheel had become better at navigating the old hunter’s parleying and was beginning to wield it himself.
“I picked my sword because it’s a good weapon. Simple. Easy to use. You hold the end that don’t cut and stick with the end that does. Same with the bow. But your sticks got points on both ends; I’ve seen you stick yourself more times on accident than you’ve stuck targets on purpose.”
Khasr pouted and turned on his heel once he had returned to his original position. Fine. If the old man wanted to be so mean then he could be mean to himself. Khasr didn’t need to listen. And he certainly didn’t need to listen to that smirking chuckle. In fact, he decided that he hadn’t heard it at all.
He planted his feet firmly on the ground and hefted the throwing spear to his shoulder. Even though Daha knew nothing about javelins and so the boy was left to figure things out himself, he had made progress from his first clumsy toss in the Whet Stone. If anything, the boy knew his weapon; he always made sure to grasp it in the middle, where the balance was perfect on either side, and though he may have stuck himself once or twice he had never dropped one or lost his grip. It was his own body that he did not know; once thrown, they never seemed to go where he wanted. Still, he was determined. He would learn.
He leaned back and wound up his arm. He held his breath. He let it fly.
