Macardil
@Karis Ziranphel
"Yes, she did," he smiled. Looking at the targets, he tilted his head with respect. "Cúner Ziranphel, indeed. That is stellar marksmanship." He had seen her skill in person before, of course. He had recommended her earning the specialization to Amathen as early as after their first encounter on their mission to the crossing of the Poros.
At her question, he tilted his head in feigned thought. His answer was not long in coming. "The farther targets," he said quietly, "are where I would like to begin." He took a few steps in that very direction. "I do not think the moving ones will quite move me, today." He hadn't wielded his bow for such a long time; and while he had carefully maintained the strength of his muscles during captivity, he was unsure of what his aim had become. He had never gone this long without shooting arrows, not even during his downward spiral after Mellaurel's death.
"I suggest you retrieve your arrows, then, and take your break. Meanwhile I can stretch my arm," he said, using the latter as a euphemism to mean practice. She was free to watch, as far as he was concerned. Although he did not verbalize it, he gave her a friendly look and nod - which served as an open invitation. His eyes lingered just a heartbeat too long, before he resumed his path to the unmoving targets, and chose the second-farthest removed target. How much would muscle memory serve him? Was shooting his bow a skill that did not easily deteriorate?
Obviously, he had inspected his bow earlier that day, checking for cracks and tying a new bowstring. He also knew what he should be particularly mindful of; since it had been so long, he would need to mind not to lean back while shooting. And he would have to test whether his exercises at the dungeons had truly not reduced the weight he could draw. Pulling too much weight before his muscles were up to the task, could lead to injury or bad posture, and Macardil was looking for neither.
He came to a stop and looked at the target with a momentary flash of disbelief that he was here. Then he took his stance: his feet shoulder width apart, his left foot forward and his body angled to the right. He reached for an arrow from his quiver and nocked it on his longbow. He drew back his bowstring with a relaxed hand, drawing from the elbow and not the hand, until he reached his anchor point, and the disbelief and his muted nerves faded into nothingness as the calm that accompanied shooting his bow settled over him like a warm blanket in winter.
For a man to whom control was everything, he let go of control in a way when it came to archery. Aiming, to him, was not about control. It was about instinct. It was how he had been taught: "You don't look at the rock when you throw it at something," the instructor his father had hired used to say. "You look at your target." Many shot their bow with one eye closed. Macardil shot his with both eyes open. He kept the arrow in a straight line under his dominant right eye, of course, but he kept both eyes open as he looked at the target he wanted to hit. The tip and length of the arrow only in his peripheral vision, he imagined the arrow continuing to the target, accounted for the distance, waiting for the slight breeze to go down that sometimes made strands of his hair lift from his forehead, and released.
The arrow hit and he repeated the proces a second time, a third time, a fourth time - in rapid succession. Then he lowered his right arm to his side and a sincere, joyful laugh escaped him.
