513 AV, 4th Day of Winter
A welcoming smile greeted Alasdair as he entered the Feathered Shaft, grateful to escape the chill in the air. "Hello Kalvin," he told the young shopkeep. "Alasdair," the man acknowledged. "Needing some arrows?" Alasdair shook his head and folded his arms. "Not in the market for anything today. I'd like to use your range." Kalvin smiled and led him to the stairs that disappeared down into the basement. "Sure. I've got three others down there right now. How long you wanting?" He thought for a moment, considering the mizas he had left. "Give me two hours. Let me know when it's up, I'll lose track of time." The young man nodded his agreement. "Of course. Go on down."
Alasdair ascended the stairs into the long room under the shop. Before he even exited the stairwell, he could hear the hum of bowstrings and thud of arrows as they hit home. Eyes turned to him when he entered, and he nodded a greeting. There was a young woman with a short recurve, polished to a beautiful shine, then a young man with a strong looking longbow. The third was an old man - years older than himself it seemed, also with a powerful longbow. They had chosen random ranges, and bales of hay were set up at different distances. The old man's target was peppered with projectiles, looking like a bristled porcupine. Everyone else seemed to be having good fortune as well.
Alasdair slipped his shortbow and quiver up and off his back so he could remove his coat and place it on one of the tables provided, then slung the arrows back over his shoulder and took up a position beside the elderly man. He received a toothless grin as a way of greeting, then the old archer let loose another broadhead from his hip quiver. It hit the bale where all the other arrows were grouping. Alasdair looked at the other targets in use. Everyone else seemed pretty good as well, though not as good as the old man.
He hoped he wouldn't make a fool of himself. If it were a choice, he would practice his archery alone, but the increasing cold was making it difficult and pointless to go out in the woods just to shoot at trees. A cold front seemed to be moving in, hinting that some winter weather may be approaching. Hopefully it was a fluke. Winters here weren't unpleasant, but the weather could always surprise them with a trick or two. This indoor range was convenient, but he hated to practice in front of anyone. It made him feel like eyes were on him, waiting for a mistake. But he'd standing there mulling over his annoyance for long enough.
Alasdair plucked an arrow from the bundle sticking up behind his shoulder and nocked it carefully to the string under a little knot of sinew that would keep the feathered end from sliding up the bow's chord. He placed three finger pads on the string; index, middle, and ring digits - so that the nock was positioned between the first two fingers. The bow wasn't big by any means; only a 50 pound draw. He could bend the limbs easily, but hitting a target took a lot more than upper body strength. Alasdair stood sideways examining his hay bale for a few heartbeats and the target circle that challenged him. He didn't expect to hit the apple-sized bullseye in its center, but instead the three increasingly larger outer rings.
A welcoming smile greeted Alasdair as he entered the Feathered Shaft, grateful to escape the chill in the air. "Hello Kalvin," he told the young shopkeep. "Alasdair," the man acknowledged. "Needing some arrows?" Alasdair shook his head and folded his arms. "Not in the market for anything today. I'd like to use your range." Kalvin smiled and led him to the stairs that disappeared down into the basement. "Sure. I've got three others down there right now. How long you wanting?" He thought for a moment, considering the mizas he had left. "Give me two hours. Let me know when it's up, I'll lose track of time." The young man nodded his agreement. "Of course. Go on down."
Alasdair ascended the stairs into the long room under the shop. Before he even exited the stairwell, he could hear the hum of bowstrings and thud of arrows as they hit home. Eyes turned to him when he entered, and he nodded a greeting. There was a young woman with a short recurve, polished to a beautiful shine, then a young man with a strong looking longbow. The third was an old man - years older than himself it seemed, also with a powerful longbow. They had chosen random ranges, and bales of hay were set up at different distances. The old man's target was peppered with projectiles, looking like a bristled porcupine. Everyone else seemed to be having good fortune as well.
Alasdair slipped his shortbow and quiver up and off his back so he could remove his coat and place it on one of the tables provided, then slung the arrows back over his shoulder and took up a position beside the elderly man. He received a toothless grin as a way of greeting, then the old archer let loose another broadhead from his hip quiver. It hit the bale where all the other arrows were grouping. Alasdair looked at the other targets in use. Everyone else seemed pretty good as well, though not as good as the old man.
He hoped he wouldn't make a fool of himself. If it were a choice, he would practice his archery alone, but the increasing cold was making it difficult and pointless to go out in the woods just to shoot at trees. A cold front seemed to be moving in, hinting that some winter weather may be approaching. Hopefully it was a fluke. Winters here weren't unpleasant, but the weather could always surprise them with a trick or two. This indoor range was convenient, but he hated to practice in front of anyone. It made him feel like eyes were on him, waiting for a mistake. But he'd standing there mulling over his annoyance for long enough.
Alasdair plucked an arrow from the bundle sticking up behind his shoulder and nocked it carefully to the string under a little knot of sinew that would keep the feathered end from sliding up the bow's chord. He placed three finger pads on the string; index, middle, and ring digits - so that the nock was positioned between the first two fingers. The bow wasn't big by any means; only a 50 pound draw. He could bend the limbs easily, but hitting a target took a lot more than upper body strength. Alasdair stood sideways examining his hay bale for a few heartbeats and the target circle that challenged him. He didn't expect to hit the apple-sized bullseye in its center, but instead the three increasingly larger outer rings.
