she's pretty sure she can make this shot. She's made more difficult shots by far — even if nothing has approached the rush of nailing that wyvern in the eye, that very first time — and also, how mad would Flint really be if she missed. Weren't half a dozen people in Halamshiral trying to kill Lazar. Maybe she could get away with it.
(For legal reasons, she thinks all of these things as a joke.)
“Well, you have to do less math,” she says, her bow in her hand, an arrow in the other. The shimmering string of ice that appears only when she nocks one isn't there, yet, which renders this very deceptively unthreatening. “If you'd rather just throw it in the air, really—”
There's a demon on every shoulder, Ma told him once. There's a pinch of the Prophet there, too, steering her children to the light. Only Andraste didn't much mind danger. Not in anything he ever read -
Lazar balances the apple atop his head, and as an afterthought, hops onto one foot, arms winging out for balance.
"Besides, what if you gotta shoot off the Black Divine's hat? This way we'll know."
“If I ever shoot the Black Divine in the eye,” she says, nocking an arrow against the shimmering string of ice that exists only in that moment of collision, “be a sport and don't tell anyone I missed.”
Ha, ha. She lines up her shot now, narrowing her eyes and not for the first time thinking about the way that a person really takes depth perception for granted when they have it easy with two that work. A breath,
another breath,
the apple shatters into broken, frozen pieces, ice and fruit frosting Lazar's hair.
Lazar half-dives, instinct pushing him down before his head's caught up. Way too late. Frost and pulped fruit crust his brow. He laughs, smears a seed from his beard.
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On the other hand,
she's pretty sure she can make this shot. She's made more difficult shots by far — even if nothing has approached the rush of nailing that wyvern in the eye, that very first time — and also, how mad would Flint really be if she missed. Weren't half a dozen people in Halamshiral trying to kill Lazar. Maybe she could get away with it.
(For legal reasons, she thinks all of these things as a joke.)
“Well, you have to do less math,” she says, her bow in her hand, an arrow in the other. The shimmering string of ice that appears only when she nocks one isn't there, yet, which renders this very deceptively unthreatening. “If you'd rather just throw it in the air, really—”
no subject
There's a demon on every shoulder, Ma told him once. There's a pinch of the Prophet there, too, steering her children to the light. Only Andraste didn't much mind danger. Not in anything he ever read -
Lazar balances the apple atop his head, and as an afterthought, hops onto one foot, arms winging out for balance.
"Besides, what if you gotta shoot off the Black Divine's hat? This way we'll know."
no subject
Ha, ha. She lines up her shot now, narrowing her eyes and not for the first time thinking about the way that a person really takes depth perception for granted when they have it easy with two that work. A breath,
another breath,
the apple shatters into broken, frozen pieces, ice and fruit frosting Lazar's hair.
no subject
Lazar half-dives, instinct pushing him down before his head's caught up. Way too late. Frost and pulped fruit crust his brow. He laughs, smears a seed from his beard.
"Can y'do that with a normal bow?"