The string is taut.
Held extended in well-versed, hate-fuelled hand.
Balanced as sinew cuts deep into flesh.
Enflamed. And gripped in death-claw hold; is rough-hewn bow.
It nears its failure with impossible force to bend.
Splinters fold under skin of malice to remain.
Aimed. The archer ripped with force of undue aggression.
I take to flight.
I trace the arc of sky.
I hear compression of air to my destruction.
I feel the rush of metal piercing v