The forest is awash with a gentle breeze that sifts delicate motes through lances of sunlight, a whisper of air and nothing more.
Birdsong swells around them: softly cooing pigeons, cawing crows, murmuring songbirds and a dozen others that chatter among themselves.
Intermittent sunlight breaks through the lush green canopy above, turning every surface in to a dappled haze of light and shadow.
All in all, Abelath thinks to himself, it is the perfect killing zone.
Abelath should be thankful for it all - the breeze settling down to the barest murmur and keeping his scent from travelling, the birdsong that covers his every move, the dappled light that provides just enough shadow to hide within. It all makes for an excellent hunting ground, down to the last detail. And yet the tall, raven haired elf has absolutely no kills to his name, despite the long hours the pair have been hunting so far.
Fat, plump pigeons sitting in the branches overhead seem to take huge delight in the hunter's disappointment as they coo happily to each other about the elf's bad luck (or so the elf feels). Abelath has never been mocked by birds before and he isn't really appreciating his first time.
Carefully, slowly, he draws his string back with a finely crafted arrow notched in place. He sights his next target - a well-fattened wood dove - and holds his breath as he waits for the perfect moment to release...
With a soft exhale and a silent prayer Abelath lets the arrow fly in a sudden, sharp snap of waxed bowstring. Yet again, frustratingly, the arrow misses by a millimeter: the arrowhead bites home harmlessly in a tree branch and sends the dove scattering.
"Once upon a time," He declares through gritted teeth to his fellow archer. "I was a damn good shot."
"Once upon a time?" He teased as he notched his own arrow. "Are you going to sing me songs of old? Or will I have to envision them for myself?"
He raised his bow, his tongue sticking out between his lips, his eyes narrowing as he drew the string back, the fletching at his cheek. He took a breath, held it, and then released.
The arrow flew straight and true, but not towards any pigeon. Instead, it hit the base of a mushroom high on a tree, breaking it off and sending the fungus flying.
As he squinted at the path Gavin's arrow had flown Abelath realised (with an unsportsmanlike disappointment) that his hunting companion had completely and utterly bested him this time.
"Yes, yes, well done. You killed a mushroom."
With a perturbed sigh he rested his folded hands on the tip of his longbow and frowned at the felled fungus.
"You were aiming for that, right?" He checked with a bleak edge to his voice. How much better would Abelath feel if hitting the mushroom had been a complete and utter fluke?
Every shot Gavin ever took seemed to be a fluke. He was either aiming at
things people weren't looking at, or taking shots while he was tumbling
down cliffs. Whether it was luck, or skill, was completely up for debate.
"Sure," He said, grinning, which neither confirmed nor denied his
intention. He bent down to pick up the fungus. "You want some?" he teased,
offering it.
"Only to destroy the evidence maybe," Abelath replied as he reached out to boyishly push away the offered mushroom. But there's a hint of a smile, albeit a wry and slightly despairing one; for all his dramatic theatrical annoyance he can't begrudge Gavin his prize. His victory mushroom.
No longer caring about stealth Abelath all but stomped the short distance to where his arrow stuck out of a mighty tree trunk at a very neat 90 degrees.
"Besides, judging by the luck I've had today I think the damn thing will end up poisonous as soon as I take a bite..."
Yanking the arrow from the trunk, he inspected the length with a sigh as if the reason for his dismal shooting was all down to a faulty arrow. Sadly, the arrow was perfect.
"I think it's all on you to get us something decent to bring home," he sighed after a moment. "No pressure, friend."
"We can just grab some berries," Gavin said, walking after him. "You can
blame it on me. The Keeper thinks I'm an idiot anyway." He leaned up behind
him, grinning.
"Or I can help you with your shots, if you want," he teased.
"Not an option," is the darkly severe reply, but to which comment Abelath leaves it completely up to interpretation. Really, the answer applies to both: there is no way his considerable pride will let him, a very fine hunter (normally), return to their people with a handful of berries to show for their hunt, neither will he bear the indignity of being shown how to shoot like a child with their first bow.
He raises an eyebrow and firmly levels the arrow at Gavin, pointing at his chest.
"And don't say that! The Keeper thinks no such thing."
A pause, then he adds with fond - and very obvious - amusement:
That made him laugh, full and hearty, and he notched another arrow.
"Alright, alright. Come on. There's a hill near here that I saw a few rams
grazing on the other day - they're a little easier of a shot, and you can
reclaim your dignity," the last was said with that loving teasing still,
before he started to scuffle down the rock to the forest floor.
The mention of ram instantly conjures up thoughts of a wild mutton stew, something that Abelath knows would go down far better with the clan than a handful of berries and one measly mushroom. Happily he follows Gavin's path down the stone face with steps far lighter than one would suppose for an elf so uncharacteristically tall and broadly built. He hefts the heavy longbow over one shoulder and falls in to step beside his fellow archer.
"Have you heard? They say there's a possessed ram around here. With a demon inside it, apparently."
Abelath laughs briefly, wholly unconcerned but deeply amused by the idea.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sorry this took so long and sorry it's a blind set up here JUST ROLL WITH IT
Birdsong swells around them: softly cooing pigeons, cawing crows, murmuring songbirds and a dozen others that chatter among themselves.
Intermittent sunlight breaks through the lush green canopy above, turning every surface in to a dappled haze of light and shadow.
All in all, Abelath thinks to himself, it is the perfect killing zone.
Abelath should be thankful for it all - the breeze settling down to the barest murmur and keeping his scent from travelling, the birdsong that covers his every move, the dappled light that provides just enough shadow to hide within. It all makes for an excellent hunting ground, down to the last detail. And yet the tall, raven haired elf has absolutely no kills to his name, despite the long hours the pair have been hunting so far.
Fat, plump pigeons sitting in the branches overhead seem to take huge delight in the hunter's disappointment as they coo happily to each other about the elf's bad luck (or so the elf feels). Abelath has never been mocked by birds before and he isn't really appreciating his first time.
Carefully, slowly, he draws his string back with a finely crafted arrow notched in place. He sights his next target - a well-fattened wood dove - and holds his breath as he waits for the perfect moment to release...
With a soft exhale and a silent prayer Abelath lets the arrow fly in a sudden, sharp snap of waxed bowstring. Yet again, frustratingly, the arrow misses by a millimeter: the arrowhead bites home harmlessly in a tree branch and sends the dove scattering.
"Once upon a time," He declares through gritted teeth to his fellow archer. "I was a damn good shot."
no subject
He raised his bow, his tongue sticking out between his lips, his eyes narrowing as he drew the string back, the fletching at his cheek. He took a breath, held it, and then released.
The arrow flew straight and true, but not towards any pigeon. Instead, it hit the base of a mushroom high on a tree, breaking it off and sending the fungus flying.
"Ha!"
no subject
"Yes, yes, well done. You killed a mushroom."
With a perturbed sigh he rested his folded hands on the tip of his longbow and frowned at the felled fungus.
"You were aiming for that, right?" He checked with a bleak edge to his voice. How much better would Abelath feel if hitting the mushroom had been a complete and utter fluke?
no subject
Every shot Gavin ever took seemed to be a fluke. He was either aiming at things people weren't looking at, or taking shots while he was tumbling down cliffs. Whether it was luck, or skill, was completely up for debate.
"Sure," He said, grinning, which neither confirmed nor denied his intention. He bent down to pick up the fungus. "You want some?" he teased, offering it.
no subject
No longer caring about stealth Abelath all but stomped the short distance to where his arrow stuck out of a mighty tree trunk at a very neat 90 degrees.
"Besides, judging by the luck I've had today I think the damn thing will end up poisonous as soon as I take a bite..."
Yanking the arrow from the trunk, he inspected the length with a sigh as if the reason for his dismal shooting was all down to a faulty arrow. Sadly, the arrow was perfect.
"I think it's all on you to get us something decent to bring home," he sighed after a moment. "No pressure, friend."
no subject
"We can just grab some berries," Gavin said, walking after him. "You can blame it on me. The Keeper thinks I'm an idiot anyway." He leaned up behind him, grinning.
"Or I can help you with your shots, if you want," he teased.
no subject
He raises an eyebrow and firmly levels the arrow at Gavin, pointing at his chest.
"And don't say that! The Keeper thinks no such thing."
A pause, then he adds with fond - and very obvious - amusement:
"The Keeper knows you're an idiot."
no subject
That made him laugh, full and hearty, and he notched another arrow.
"Alright, alright. Come on. There's a hill near here that I saw a few rams grazing on the other day - they're a little easier of a shot, and you can reclaim your dignity," the last was said with that loving teasing still, before he started to scuffle down the rock to the forest floor.
no subject
"Have you heard? They say there's a possessed ram around here. With a demon inside it, apparently."
Abelath laughs briefly, wholly unconcerned but deeply amused by the idea.
"Let's avoid that one, shall we?"