A Fisher Out of Water
Linnuial
Just over six feet in height, this young male elf combines the natural grace of
his race with the rugged practicality required of a warrior. Pale skin, tinted
with the hues of moonlight, contrasts sharply with his dark gray eyes; and a
short mass of unkempt sandy blonde hair sits atop his head, wispy bangs hanging
over the bridge of his angular nose. His eyebrows, while thin and graceful, bow
always downward with focused attention, and his small mouth remains flattened
and serious. Though tall like the rest of his kind and more slender than most
men, he is still powerfully built, his upper half lithe and wiry. His legs are
equally athletic, and he almost always seems to be resting on the balls of his
feet, his knees bent in anticipation of threat.
He is dressed simply enough in a charcoal gray tunic, the bottom half
extending halfway down his thigh below the leather belt cinched around his
waist. The top few buttons are left open, revealing a white undershirt, whose
long sleeves stretch all the way down to his wrists. A small hood rests behind
his neck, some of his wild hair tucked into it. White breeches matching the
undershirt cling to his legs, hinting at compact, subtle musculature beneath.
They disappear into thick boots made from a tough hide that are obviously meant
for traversing rough terrain. The boots are soft, but somehow Linnuial's feet,
which are larger than those of most elves, make quite a bit of noise in them as
he walks. When appropriate, Linnuial usually wears a strap across his shoulder,
from which his weapons hang against his back.
Amarelei
This young elf maiden projects the very spirit of Yavanna both through her countenance and her demeanor. Her skin, though fair as that of any elleth, almost seems to give off a glow from within. A delicate nose graces the middle of her radiant face, just above full, soft lips, red in color as if stained by the juice of fresh cherries. Her inquisitive eyes mirror the last green shade of the leaves before autumn plucks them from the trees: a vibrant, yet faded hazel green, rimmed in a darker jade hue and flecked with gold. Falling down her back is a thick mane of rich earthen-brown hair, which barely allows the very tips of her pointed ears to peek through its full waves. Today it is swept back into a long, loose braid, tumbling down her back except for a few loose locks that frame her delicate face.
Her slender frame is hugged by leather and linen of the palest grays and greens. The sleeves of a soft white undershirt cover her arms to her wrists. Over this a pale green hooded tunic clothes her to just above mid-thigh, pulled close to her figure by leather laces that run from under her left arm down to her hip. Her legs are clad in the softest gray sueded leather, clinging closely enough to her skin to leave little doubt of her femininity, but not so close as to restrict her movement. Sturdy gray boots rise to her knees: though their soles show signs of wear, they are almost always clean.
A thin leather belt hangs low on the Lhimbadhril's hips. Tucked into it is a
short, functional dagger, its handle etched with a floral pattern of marvelous
detail. Next to it on the belt hangs a short length of twine. Strapped to her
back is a light spear, not the sort intended for use in battle. Its length is
crafted largely of wood pale in color, the metal point forged by a skilled elven
artisan.
The pale golden light of the morning sun bathes the training ground in a
peaceful glow. Very few sounds permeate the inherent quiet, save for the faraway
whisper of drying leaves as the coming winter's icy breath winds through the
trees surrounding the open lawn. From the southern sector of the grounds, a
shadow is cast on the paling green of the grass; the slender form of an elleth
silhouetted against the last rays of the sunrise. The figure remains still,
almost statuesque, until a faint *twang* is heard, followed by a few grumbled
words. Only now does the shadow animate, shoulders drooping and arms falling to
her side, bow in one hand.
Unusually stealthy steps have carried Linnuial to a few yards behind Amarelei,
leaving it a mystery as to how long he's been watching her practice. Taking a
step forward now, his foot displaces the grass with a soft sound, and he clears
his throat softly. "Good morning," he says warmly.
With motions unpracticed, yet far from imprecise, Amarelei pulls a second
arrow from the quiver at her back and resumes her stance. The faint sigh of yew
wood now takes to the air as she places her arrow to the bowstring, pulling it
slowly back between nimble fingers. Her gilded green eyes narrow with the
magnitude of her focus as she stares down the shaft of this arrow,
concentrating. Her target appears to be a large bale of meadow grass, to which a
roughly painted burlap bull’s-eye has been strapped. One silver arrow protrudes
from the upper right corner of the target, and the ground to the right of the
bale is also littered with similar arrows, all hers. From thirty paces away, she
takes careful aim....only to lose grip on her bowstring as she is startled by a
greeting. The arrow sails well to the right and above the target, and has yet to
find a resting place as the elleth turns to behold Linnuial. "And to you,
Linnuial," she mutters, surprise and sheepishness vying for prominence in her
eyes.
Linnuial winces as his voice causes Amarelei's hand to slip, and a quick hand
rises to cover his mouth. Wide eyes focus past Amarelei, following her wayward
arrow until it strikes the earth several meters wide of the target. "I'm sorry!"
he mumbles through his fingers, though now his eyes sparkle with amusement.
"Though to be so easily startled, I fear you were more tense than even the
string of your bow." Slow, deliberate steps take him closer to her side, though
he leaves her plenty of room to shoot still. "You give too much attention to the
shot, and not enough to the world around you. What if I were an orc?" Out of
context, his question might seem quite silly, but there is genuine concern in
his tone.
A nervous chuckle slips past the elleth's lips, a subtle flush creeping into
her fair cheeks all the while. "'Twas with luck that even -one- of my arrows
found its mark!" Her shoulders rise in a bashful shrug, an awkward smile now
playing across her lips as she nods her chin toward the lone silver arrow
sticking out of the meadow grass bale. "Although my hands know well the soils of
the earth, and my eyes every path through forest and field....the finer
particularities of archery elude them both to this day," she concedes, notes of
both self-deprecation and playful mirth hinted in her smooth alto.
Drawn by Amarelei's smile, the young Thandir continues to draw closer, not
conscious of his approach until he stands but a few feet away. "Your technique
is sound, but you move with too much intent. Let there be no border between your
motion and that of your bow. You must be one." Abruptly, he halts his speech,
pressing his lips together. "I am not so skilled as a teacher as the Hirvaethor
Telelas, but I would be happy to pass on what I know...?"
The tide of Amarelei's laughter flows more freely now, though still it
retains a calmness about the way it ebbs and flows. "It would be no less of an
honor, for your skill far exceeds mine own!" At the close of her sentiment, shy
embarrassment finds its way into her manner once more. "Are you sure you are
willing to take on a pupil as unseasoned as I?" Her bow hangs loosely within the
grasp of her left hand, though the fingers of her right now sweep
absent-mindedly over the polished wood and leather grip.
Linnuial's brow furrows slightly, his eyes flashing confusion at Amarelei's
question. "Of course I am," he replies, his tone as though the answer should be
obvious. "Nor would I call you unseasoned. I ... was very impressed by your
bravery and skill during the quest to recover Sarinar. Already your aim is
sharp, you need only refine your technique through practice... and I would
prefer that practice be here, with me, rather than in danger on the field." His
lips curve into a soft and genuine smile as his gaze remains briefly on the
Lhimbadhril, but a moment later he is readying Brantoril. "Let us shoot
together. By simply watching me, you may learn much that I have from teachers
both here and in the Golden Wood."
With little more than a deliberate nod of acknowledgement, the intensity in
Amarelei's demeanor surfaces anew. From the moment Linnuial draws forth his
longbow, the elleth observes every nuance of his movement, her focus trained
mainly on the grip of his hand on Brantoril, as well as the angles formed as he
falls into his stance. A slender hand drifts to her face, brushing away a few
locks sprung loose from her braid, then reaching to the quiver at her back.
Linnuial's first move is to space his feet wide apart, planting them firmly
in the ground and perpendicular to his target line. His left arm locks forward,
the muscles tensing beneath his white undershirt as he tilts Brantoril thirty
degrees toward him. "Even before an arrow is nocked, you should aim with your
bow... especially in times when a quick volley of fire is needed," he says
quietly, his right arm bending back over his shoulder, his fingers seizing an
arrow without wasted motion. Nocking it, he pauses, eyes glancing over his
outstretched left arm at Amarelei. A nervous and self-conscious smile forms on
his lips, but fortunately they are hidden behind his shoulder. "Your left arm
should not move as you pull the arrow back. Let it and the shaft be one line,
all the way to the target." He pulls the arrow back, Brantoril letting out a
long groan as he tests its limits. Two fingers pinch the shaft of the arrow, not
yet releasing, as Linnuial awaits any questions.
Just as the edhel readies his shot, so does Amarelei strive to imitate each
movement. The degree of her concentration is plainly evidenced by the way she
now chews on the soft fullness of her lower lip. Though her own bow is two
handspans shorter than Linnuial's, her stature is also smaller. Thus with
shorter arms and a narrower stance the elleth mirrors his position--with
movements slightly slower and more contrived, for she is learning.
"Like this?" she calls over the arm that now draws back her bowstring, her voice
lilting in her inquiry. Despite all of the Lhimbadhril's well-placed focus and
strength, her shift in attention from the task at hand to Linnuial now leaves
room for error; her left arm wobbles a bit at the elbow. She hurries to correct
this obvious misstep as "Your left arm should not move" echoes in her ears. A
hot flush now creeps to the tips of her pointed Elven ears as she casts a
sidelong glance to the Thandir, perhaps an attempt to assess whether or not he
had noticed.
Linnuial's sharp eyes focus on the wobbling immediately, but he lifts his
chin above his shoulder and smiles nonetheless. "Yes, like that." Turning his
head back toward the target, he closes one eye and sights the other along the
line formed by the shaft and his left arm. "Now I shall fire," he says quietly.
Muscles that already seemed tense define themselves even further through his
clothing, his legs and arms all preparing for the recoil of the bow. Then,
without warning, his fingers slip from the shaft. Brantoril's tips spring
forward, launching the barb at the target with a straight jerk. Yet Linnuial's
strength overpowers the reaction, and his aim is unhindered. The arrow flies
true, landing just on the outside of the bullseye. A soft sigh of relief escapes
the Thandir's lips.
The young forester follows the arrow's shallow arc through the air, the hazel
green irises of her eyes flashing with hues borrowed from the afternoon sun as
the arrowhead pierces burlap and meadow grass. Resting there for a few
heartbeats, her gaze then refocuses to allow the length of her own arrow into
her field of vision. Amarelei's chest rises and falls with a barely audible
breath of preparation before she too looses her arrow upon the breeze. Her own
strength, however, is decidedly lesser than Linnuial's. Thus as the tension
imparted upon her bow is released, the force as it snaps back disrupts the
rigidity she so strived to maintain throughout her left arm. Again she falters,
sending yet another arrow into the far right side of the bale.
As the fate of her shot is now decided, Amarelei's nose wrinkles in apparent
distaste. "Perhaps I took not enough time in aiming...?" she mumbles, a subtle
line furrowing across her fair brow.
Linnuial's eyes followed not Amarelei's arrow, but instead remained on the
Lhimbadhril as she shot. "It takes but a moment to line your arrow and arm with
the target," he replies, slinging Brantoril over his shoulder and stepping over
toward her. "The challenge is holding your line even as you shoot. Just as the
arrow wishes to fly toward the target, the bow wishes to leap from your hands.
You must control this force and keep the bow steady." He pauses then, hands
moving in vain gestures as he tries to find the words for his instruction. "You
must tense against the bow, yet also absorb its defiance in your muscles." He
frowns. "It is difficult to explain."
Amarelei sets her jaw with renewed determination, though faint confusion also
lines her face. With very little hesitation, yet undeniable uncertainty, the
maiden swings her bow back into position, resquaring her frame to a flexible
sturdiness. Fitting the notch of yet another arrow to her bowstring, she squints
down the silver shaft to the center of the target.
Once more her bowstring is drawn back to her right shoulder; though rather than
letting it slip hastily past her fingertips, the elleth's pinch endures as she
makes several subtle adjustments in her posture. Subtly twisting an arm here,
resetting her shoulders there, until finally, she appears satisfied. Yet this
barb takes not well to the air, for her attempt to prevent the bow from jerking
up and to the right is undone by overcompensation. The silver arrow spirals fast
and low, lodging into the rain-dampened ground before even breaking the plane of
the target.
"My apologies, Amarelei," he says, eyes falling to the ground where the arrow
fell short. "Your shots found more success before you endured my counsel."
Turning once again to her, he says, "Yet you have showed much strength in
controlling your bow like that." Again he furrows his brow in thought, but in a
sudden moment of clarity he says, "This time, keep your arm firm to maintain the
aim, but let your knees flex to absorb the shock." He nods with certainty,
smiling brightly.
Once more Amarelei lifts her frame per the edhel's recommendation, otherwise
following much the same steps in firing this shot. Perhaps some balance now has
been found, for though her release remains somewhat tentative, this arrow speeds
a straight course to the target. With a solid *thwock*, it lodges soundly in the
meadow grass bale--nowhere near a bullseye, yet well within the third ring, and
now more toward the middle of the target rather than skewed off to the right.
The distant shadow of a modest smile blooms upon her lips, though all too soon
it withers like the blossoms of the gardens in this fading season, hidden in
favor of attentiveness as she awaits further advice. "Ah, you apologize to soon,
Linnuial!" Though even before these words spill past her lips, the young
maiden's smile is unmasked anew. "It seems your teaching is due more credit than
you hath given it thus far. For if nothing else, my arrows now strike more
towards the target's center."
Linnuial smiles broadly at Amarelei's success, and he bows his head to her.
"I am honored to have had some part in your skill, for it is quickly growing."
Taking a moment to fasten Brantoril back onto its harness on his shoulder strap,
the Thandir lets settle a moment's silence between his praise and his next, more
serious urging. "Yet, however much your bravery and talent impress me, I implore
you to seek no strife in which to test your aim." His eyes settle on the elleth
for a moment, but for fear of sombering the mood too greatly, he quickly smiles
and looks to the ground. "After all, if sharpshooting ellith such as you fight
our battles, how will I ever make Hirvaethor?"
Both solemn resolve and kind reassurance are evidenced now in the elleth's
aspect. Her smile now tempers, wide green eyes likewise softening. "Great honor
shall be yours one day, Linnuial. In battle your skill and valor lies, whereas
mine shall belong to the forest and its denizens for the rest of my days." This
sentiment spoken, Amarelei now pauses to replace her bow at her back, her long
earthen-brown braid cascading forward over linen-clad shoulders. "And that which
holds captive my spirit now calls me forth into its halls...it is with regret
that I now leave you here to your practicing. Yet I hope in my words you will
find some reassurance." Gentle and flowing is the melody of her voice, not lost
to the winds as she turns to depart, calling once more over her shoulder. "Namarie,
and thank you."
As Amarelei speaks, Linnuial's eyes rise to meet hers, and a look of growing anticipation forms on his face. Yet, even though whatever words he might expect from her do not come now, he still flashes her a relieved, albeit soft smile. "Go to your woods, for I am sure they miss your company. Namarie, Amarelei."