<span style="font-style: italic">Thrum-hiss-smack.</span><br/><br/>The sound of insects, birds and critters in the woods was briefly interrupted by a much different sound. The woods in this area were sparce, populated by only the heartiest of trees. The trunks were wide, sturdy, and heavily worn by weather. The air hung with mist chilled by the breeze coming off the mountain top. In this area, even in the dead of summer, heat was never a problem.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Thrum-hiss-smack.</span><br/><br/>The steel tip of an arrow embedded deeply into the target of woven reeds hung on the trunk of a tree. The tip dug deep into the solid weaving, the barbs of the head digging in with a solid grip. The fletching on the arrow quivered with impact, brushing against a few other arrows, which were embedded so close to this last arrow that they touched.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Thrum-hiss-smack.</span><br/><br/>A man stood among the foliage of the forest, nearly 50 paces from the target, which was an incredible distance. With the lack of underbrush in the higher forests, he was able to practice obstructed shooting, with the benefit of visibility. Drawing another arrow from the quiver across his back, he knocked the arrow, then tensed all of the muscles in both arms and across his back, drawing back the string. His bracing arm extended straight out, the fingers of his pulling arm holding the arrow steady on the string. There was once a time when his muscles would have quivered at drawing back such a weight, but those day s were long past. He had developed a significant increase in upper body muscle, leaving his figure lean and trim, solidly built of muscle. After sighting down the arrow for only a second, he released, sending the arrow flying across the staggering distance to slam into the tree. The shot, as usual, was perfect.<br/><br/>Smiling to himself, the archer picked up his pack, and strode toward the target to retrieve his arrows. Only minutes later, he emerged from the tree line, pack slung over his back, bow worn across his chest, quiver neatly hung beside his back. The mountain village was tiny, but it was his to protect as a ranger of the king's court. He was the strategic arrowhead at the tip of every battle, the leader of the small militia contingent, and the political envoy to the Royal Court whenever matters required such relations.<br/><br/>Smiling, he descended the hill toward the village, overlooking the many houses and buildings. These were his people. His to protect and serve. His to guide and teach. He wouldn't have it any other way.