Some people are trained to fight in a strict and disciplined manner. Some people have a sharpened stick shoved into their hand, pointed in a direction, and told to kill things. Leofwine was the latter, and in his time, trying to become the former. But when he felt the arrow punch through a weak spot in his armor, and sink into his flesh, felt the searing white-hot pain of the metal and wood ripping and tearing, he knew one thing.<br/><br/>He can't stand still. He can't be organized. He needed to do something in this moment, every man for himself. It was like slipping right back into his first days as a conscript; the only difference being that he had at least an idea of what he was doing now, as opposed to way back then.... and that back then, it was goblins.<br/><br/>He<strong>dashed</strong>forward, shaking off the pain, not letting it slow him down; he's been through worse. The Long Knives tribe had torn him up plenty of times, and he always fought on, right down the line. As he closed the distance on the tree, he holstered the glaive to free up his hands, and scrambled up the branches, or rope, or whatever it was that led up to the archer's perch; perhaps not in the most graceful fashion, but it was effective. And you know what? Screw grace. Grace might be all fine an well for dandies and fops in their flashy duels, but efficiency is all that mattered in times of war. That's one of the many lessons he took away from his conscription.<br/><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Athletics Roll</div><div class="spoiler_body">At 2017-09-15 11:08:35, TheHangedMan (uid: 12227) rolls: 1d20a4 Result: 16 (https://elliquiy.com/forums/dicebot.php?r=107456)<br/></div></div>