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Miss.

Miss.

Miss.

Miss, miss, miss. Miss, miss, miss, miss. Detraeus clenched and released his sore fingers, working the taut, overworked muscles there and then rolling his aching shoulder. He frowned, exhaled a slow breath, and then fitted his bow against his back, beginning (again) the process of seeking out his lost arrows, a process now all too familiar to him.

Despite the initial, absolute persistence of failure — point in fact, at first Detraeus found he couldn’t so much as draw the bow properly, it was too large and tight — he worked with it consistently, devoting at least some portion of time every day to building his strength and competence with it. Early on, he simply tugged at the string as an exercise, working it out and then slowing its release in an effort to strengthen his arms, and, gradually as time wore on, his competence with it did as well.

By the time he was coming close to hitting non-moving targets five times out of ten, he decided a more useful endeavor was in order: he needed food. He knew there were multiple beasts about that could be cooked into a solid meal. Dalaks, in particular — the noisy beasts — as well as several lyru nests further up in the mountains. Going out of his way to seek them out when he came across their paths often enough by chance as he traveled seemed a waste of effort, however, so, after his dusk exercises with his bow, Detraeus started on his path forward, keeping a watchful eye out for anything worth shooting at in earnest.

He realized too, as he walked, that travel had become — well, not easy, by any stretch, but slightly less of a constant terror. After attaining his bow, Detra felt bonded to it, loyal to it, protected by it, even, though he had yet to master it — far from it. It gave him something to work on, and a sense of progress in matters not related to directional miles covered towards Soudul. The bow felt right to him, and comforting under his fingers when he practiced with it, despite all the aches and sores said practice had given him thus far.

Though it had yet to win him a single proper meal on its own, he was getting closer and, in the meantime, surviving well enough off of what he could scavenge and pull together on his own, whether that meant risking his life with fruits or berries, scrounging up what he could from fallen hunters or beasts, or finding new ways to hydrate himself, he had made it this far. And he had no intentions of slowing down anytime soon. With a real weapon at his side, he felt he had the power to make his trip even easier, if only he could get a grip on how best to make it work for him.

When he first heard dalak cries, Detraeus immediately slowed his pace. He took his time finding an appropriate nook, out of sight, shadowed in the darkness and low to the earth. He watched them — two fat, and likely angry from the sound of things, dalaks honking boisterously at each other, far too caught up in their own ‘dialogue’ of sorts to notice him — and he breathed out, carefully steadying his hand and his pulse as he drew out an arrow.

All the time in the world.

‘You have all the time in the world. Breathe. Aim. If you miss, try again.’

He held his draw tight, aimed, and let the arrow fly.

Absolute miss. The arrow thunked into the trunk of a nearby tree, tip burying itself in the wood, and both dalaks startled, quieting their honking but didn’t flee yet, looking more curious than anything.

Immediately, Detraeus drew another arrow, not wasting a spare second while his opportunity was still open. Fire two. And, miss. This time, unfortunately, the arrow landed close enough to the pair that they squawked loudly in protest, feathers stirring up and more loud honks belting out from their beaks. They must not have been used to being hunted in this area, however, because though they stirred, they still didn’t flee, and Detraeus drew another arrow.

Hit.

He blinked. He’d hit? He’d hit. It was a poor shot, though, lodged in the beast’s wing and not nearly enough to down it, and as they started fleeing, properly alarmed now, Detraeus bit back his frustration, scrambling out of his hiding place. Just as he prepared to draw another shot, however and attempt to down the fleeing creature, something entirely different sounded from above.

A roar, sharp and loud, enough to make his ears ring, but far from the deep bellows of most of the beasts in the vicinity. His heart dropped in his chest. Dragon call.

Sure enough, seconds later, a pillar of scorching fire, followed immediately by a streak of glinting claws cut directly in front of him, engulfing the two honking dalaks before he could blink. Firanis. One — he glanced back — two, three of them. When the first one yanked up the dalak he’d shot, however, powerful talons puncturing its soft body easily and lifting it the next instant like a rodent in the claws of an olrawk, his protest fell from his lips before he could censor it.

“No, that’s mine!”

Less than a second after letting the words slip, Detraeus realized his mistake. As the dragon rounded on him, he stumbled back, scrambling out of the way and only just barely managing to sidestep the first follow-up pillar of fire that the beast sent chasing after him. The heat soaked through his clothes, stealing the breath from his lungs. Shoot.

Attack it.

Fight.

Do something.

Detraeus jerked free one of the throwing daggers from his belt, forcing himself up and out from behind the protective boulder he’d darted to, and slung the weapon out. The dragon was close enough that, miraculously, the weapon hit, lodging it in the creature’s armor and earning a sharp, angered snarl. The dragon dove in, and Detraeus darted sidelong, slashing up with the larger of his knives as the beast’s fangs closed in on where he’d been seconds before, his blade ripping into its wing and bringing it to a clumsy, staggered crash against the earth. He took of its surprise to bury a blade in its head.

The other two were not so easy, and refused to give up the chase on him after he felled their apparent hunting companion, but in the end — by some miracle and Soudana’s saving grace, Detraeus had no doubt — he made it through the battle with nary more than three shallow claw marks on his upper arm and a singed ankle. Three firani orbs richer and left with one well-cooked dalak body, he considered it a good day.