General

I don't see the target, I feel the entire woods and the target calls to the bow and arrow. Evil has a death wish, it's weird that way. Ask any divine huntress, they'll tell you the same.

General

These still tips always find home, so to the cold of heart they are as good as a guided missile.

General

Tell me when you see a warrior with a bow and arrow, and I'll be right there. All the time you see a girl with a toy you'll be alone. What I do is real.

General

These arrows fly true because I am true, because ever fibre of my being realises I am right on target.

General

The bow and arrow are only tools, I shoot with my heart.

General

This bow has been my steady partner all these years, safe at my side. The arrows it launches fly straight and true, always right on target. I would feel less at ease walking these forests without it, I guess some things become a part of you over time.

General

I hardly notice the bow any longer, it's as if we have become one. There was a time I would never have ceded to carrying a weapon, yet love demands that you defend what you love, else what is it? What are we without it? I cannot fathom how the enemy feels, taking with cold and greedy cores, indifferent to our suffering as they build castles of gold and fertilise their trees with our bones.

A warrior must always have a core of love to be safe, to be one with mother nature and the spirits who guide us, otherwise why would she take sides? Why would she help? And so in my hands the wood of the bow is as one of my own fingers, the string as one of my own muscles and the arrows fly straight because my love is the same. I pray one day I may lay it down, to be at peace, and let my heart be all the weapon I need. Until then, this is how it is.

General

He speaks as he shoots, straight and on target, whether you're ready or not. He has a way with the truth and there's no point arguing because it defends itself. I'd love to argue back, show him where he's wrong but I can't. So I watch for a moment while he re-strings his bow, the deep wood flexing in the dawn. It takes just a moment, then he slings it behind him with the arrows, each as perfect as the last.

General

The arrow in my hands speaks to me with Papa's words, "Should killing ever be fun... stop. Leave it to another with deeper spiritual roots. Life is sacred, and without that we would be the monsters." The tip is newly sliver once more, the blood washed downstream. In my palms it is but a twig, yet with the bow it is quite deadly. I feel into my soul; search and find only a reverence for creation, for all animals and plants, and a soft regret that I had to kill. Yet it is necessary to keep healthy those I love and am a defender of... with a prayer for the departed we move on, solemn as we should be.