Aiming Down Range


POSTED: Sun Oct 07, 2018 11:15 pm

OOC: Hee Haw Orchard. Just after sunrise. WC: 477

IC: The soft hum and audible thwack of an arrow being released and striking true into its target repeatedly could be heard in the otherwise quiet, misty morning. Down a deserted orchard row, the lone female practiced her aim and accuracy on thin, wooden target strapped to a hay bale. It had been a while since Sedona had pulled out her archery equipment. She had been feeling the nagging desire to bring out the old bow and arrow for the past week or so. She didn't want to fall out of practice and forgo her chances at bringing in game for food for the pack, especially now that the weather and seasons were shifting and would bring less and less prey.

Thankfully, the cowgirl found she was not rusty in her art; and with a few off-point shots, she regained her true strikes quite readily. While no perfect shot every time, she was always a fairly good cluster-shot. She never missed the target, which was always a positive. She made sure that when she first picked up the weapon she had at least mastered staying within a certain area on the target before she even bothered trying to utilize the bow outside of a range. In the chilly October morning, the solitude of the orchard provided the woman with the perfect focus. Her clusters of arrows were tighter than usual and her grasp upon her bow felt sure and steady as she prepared to loose another one right into the heart of her already buried previous five shots into the bullseye. Taking a steadying breath, the Whitesage woman, ran her fingers along the shaft of the arrow, her heart racing as her focus became acute. It was as if time had slowed. All that mattered was her, the bow, the arrow and the target. She could almost feel the palpable tension in the air from the drawn back bow string as she aimed at her target point. On the count of three, she would release the deadly tipped weapon to send it flashing like a flying fang through the swirling fog and into the brightly painted target yards away.

Confidence in her aim was key to making the most accurate shot possible. Confidence and concentration. "On three..." she thought. "One...Two..." Itching to let go of her target seeking projectile Sedona narrowed her eyes, at the ready, doing one last quick visual check of her surrounds before she spoke the last number under her breath. "Three." She then let the arrow fly free and watched it streak away from her and zoom straight down the row of crabapple trees and sink deep into the hay bale. With a triumphant grin, the woman wagged her tail and began to reach for another arrow from the quiver upon her back, aiming for a seventh successful buried shot in her makeshift target.

Mistfell Vale
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POSTED: Thu Oct 11, 2018 9:19 am




A half black masked face poked up above the yellowing grass, swaying like an autumnal sea. They blinked away the sleep from their frosty eyes, and dark lips parted to show pinkish insides, a longue spotty tongue curling out in a shaky yawn.

'What are you what are you’

That's when they knew, he was a boy in the moment, then he could think. The night had been full of stars, and he recalled laying in the orchard for a gaze. Mystery must have fallen into a slumber.

Then there was a bold, distinctive start, like a rock hitting a hard place, and its aftermath echoed through the field. Around the rustling trees and the open air until it dissolved and the only thing left was the wind. Mystery sat up, marbled ears delicately adjusting to find the source. Another harsh, woody thump, and this time he crawled to a tree and peered at a woman with a bow in hand, quiver on a morning-touched back that looked a shade of gold. Mystery looked to the bright target, back to her as she began drawing another fletched bullet. Her, the weapon and a target down the way, it seemed so beautiful, like Flamingo. Whatever that was, but he knew it was just as beautiful as this, it must be.

Hitting a target, it was kind of like winning in a way, a way that Mystery had never won anything before. It looked sleek, skillful, a wizardry in a world of their mundane antics. Of paper folding and voices, and the uncanny. Archery looked hard and full of problems, the problems that came with the curve, but all Mystery wanted to do was take it in his hands and shoot.

But he stayed, behind the wide trunk of the apple tree, breath swaying in rickets because he wanted to talk to the pretty girl with the pretty shot. Mystery didn't know what to say, or do, but just watch. And the voices they went, 'just watch just watch’ but he couldn't stay away. The oddball plucked an apple from the fall grass and strolled into the line of fire. He placed it atop his head, eyes like misty lakes peering up to watch the apple and keep it atop his head.

Mystery grinned, a tooth pulling over his lip awkwardly, his one dark ear bent down like a snapped reed. “A f-funny joke,” he spoke over the hissing grass, “funny, jocular p-probably hysterical,” he whispered. 'Dolt’

Mistfell Vale
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Mistfell Vale