.
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..20th Winter, 514
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..20th Winter, 514
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ffft. thunk.
ffft. thunk.
It had been occupying Zhol's thoughts a lot today: how to describe the sound of an arrow being fired; the whip of the bow string past your cheek; the creak of the composite wood and bone relaxing; the sound like a breeze or heavy sigh as the arrow pierced the air; the deep, reverberating thud as the projectile pounded it's way into the target. There was something deeply satisfying about it, something addictive almost; it was easy to see how a whole culture could become obsessed around it. It wasn't as if archery was unheard of in Endrykas, but there it was mostly the foray of the hunters; here though, it was the way to pass the time, and if you couldn't shoot, there wasn't much point to you; at least, that was how it seemed through an outsider's eyes.
Zhol hadn't been brave enough to visit the formal archery ranges again, but that was a blessing in disguise. Aside from that one afternoon spent by the lakes with Khara, his target had lived in the Skyhigh Stables, dragged out into the pastures during quiet moments, or here into the riding cave. It was perfect for days like today, when much of the city was focused on the market; when merely being here was more important than actually doing anything. There were always tasks and odd jobs near the beginning of the day; horses to groom or to let out to pasture; straps and buckles hung on the wrong hooks in the tack room that needed rearranging; sacks of horse dung to be left out to dry, to be burned as fuel and save Wind Reach's precious wood reserves; but most of those tasks fell to the Chiet and the Dek, and tasks like training horses, training riders, training yasi and adult Inarta to handle horses for work in the mines or the gardens? Those couldn't be done if the people to be taught were otherwise occupied. Wind Reach ground almost to a halt on market days, and if you had no wares to sell, there was little to do. Zhol was here for no other reason than the fact that someone had to be, just in case.
And so here he was, practising his archery. No, practising didn't seem like enough of a word: rehearsing his archery. It wasn't enough to simply be good; he had to look good doing it as well. It was no good hitting the target if your poise and posture doing so was worth laughing at. It was that which Zhol was focusing on perfecting now, caring less about how accurately he hit the target, and more about how accurately and fluidly he could achieve the correct stance over and over. His arrows were scattered haphazardly across the target board - at least they were all on the target though; he took some solace in that - but his shoulders and back were finding the positions they were supposed to, his hand was drawing the string back as far as it was supposed to, with ever so slightly less difficulty. Idly, he wondered if there were other things he could try to bulk up the muscles in his arms and shoulders, and make matters easier for himself.
He worked his way through the process one stage at a time. Hips forward. Back straight. Shoulders down. Elbow outwards; bent, not locked. Fingers loose around the bow; let the string pull it into your hand, don't grip it. One eye half way closed, forcing himself to focus with the one closer to the arrow. The bullseye skewered by the arrow point in his vision. Steady breaths. Emptying his lungs completely, so that each shot was fired under the exact same conditions. Breathe out. Three. Two. One.
ffft. thunk.
Zhol grimaced. That had felt like a good one, but the arrow impaled itself too low and too right of where it was supposed to be. The worst part was that if Khara was here, she'd praise him for it. It was better, marginally, than what he'd been capable of before. But it wasn't better enough. Just because he could earn her praise easily didn't mean that he deserved it.
He reached for another arrow, heaved out his frustration as a sigh, and once again settled into thinking about how to describe those sounds.
ffft. thunk.
ffft. thunk.
It had been occupying Zhol's thoughts a lot today: how to describe the sound of an arrow being fired; the whip of the bow string past your cheek; the creak of the composite wood and bone relaxing; the sound like a breeze or heavy sigh as the arrow pierced the air; the deep, reverberating thud as the projectile pounded it's way into the target. There was something deeply satisfying about it, something addictive almost; it was easy to see how a whole culture could become obsessed around it. It wasn't as if archery was unheard of in Endrykas, but there it was mostly the foray of the hunters; here though, it was the way to pass the time, and if you couldn't shoot, there wasn't much point to you; at least, that was how it seemed through an outsider's eyes.
Zhol hadn't been brave enough to visit the formal archery ranges again, but that was a blessing in disguise. Aside from that one afternoon spent by the lakes with Khara, his target had lived in the Skyhigh Stables, dragged out into the pastures during quiet moments, or here into the riding cave. It was perfect for days like today, when much of the city was focused on the market; when merely being here was more important than actually doing anything. There were always tasks and odd jobs near the beginning of the day; horses to groom or to let out to pasture; straps and buckles hung on the wrong hooks in the tack room that needed rearranging; sacks of horse dung to be left out to dry, to be burned as fuel and save Wind Reach's precious wood reserves; but most of those tasks fell to the Chiet and the Dek, and tasks like training horses, training riders, training yasi and adult Inarta to handle horses for work in the mines or the gardens? Those couldn't be done if the people to be taught were otherwise occupied. Wind Reach ground almost to a halt on market days, and if you had no wares to sell, there was little to do. Zhol was here for no other reason than the fact that someone had to be, just in case.
And so here he was, practising his archery. No, practising didn't seem like enough of a word: rehearsing his archery. It wasn't enough to simply be good; he had to look good doing it as well. It was no good hitting the target if your poise and posture doing so was worth laughing at. It was that which Zhol was focusing on perfecting now, caring less about how accurately he hit the target, and more about how accurately and fluidly he could achieve the correct stance over and over. His arrows were scattered haphazardly across the target board - at least they were all on the target though; he took some solace in that - but his shoulders and back were finding the positions they were supposed to, his hand was drawing the string back as far as it was supposed to, with ever so slightly less difficulty. Idly, he wondered if there were other things he could try to bulk up the muscles in his arms and shoulders, and make matters easier for himself.
He worked his way through the process one stage at a time. Hips forward. Back straight. Shoulders down. Elbow outwards; bent, not locked. Fingers loose around the bow; let the string pull it into your hand, don't grip it. One eye half way closed, forcing himself to focus with the one closer to the arrow. The bullseye skewered by the arrow point in his vision. Steady breaths. Emptying his lungs completely, so that each shot was fired under the exact same conditions. Breathe out. Three. Two. One.
ffft. thunk.
Zhol grimaced. That had felt like a good one, but the arrow impaled itself too low and too right of where it was supposed to be. The worst part was that if Khara was here, she'd praise him for it. It was better, marginally, than what he'd been capable of before. But it wasn't better enough. Just because he could earn her praise easily didn't mean that he deserved it.
He reached for another arrow, heaved out his frustration as a sigh, and once again settled into thinking about how to describe those sounds.
"Pavi" | "Common" | "Nari" | "Symenos"
Dad Thoughts | Dinah Thoughts | Khara Thoughts
...
This template was made by Khara, the letter Q, and the numbers 87 and 13.
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