#mastery drabble: sniper

[freedomarrow]

Epilogue [Sniper drabble]

“Now. Young mister von Elessar will remind us.” Without a word, you get up from your seat at the sound of the teacher’s voice calling out your name. “What are the most effective methods of killing flying sub-humans?”

“Shoot them from a bow or a ballista,” you respond, your voice flat and emotionless, exactly as it should be. You would not be so silly as to think of a dirty half-beast with sympathy, would you? That is just not appropriate.

“Good. And where do you aim?”

“Heart or wing joints.”

“Exactly!” The teacher claps his hands in agreement, in what feels like sheer excitement. “You see, the wings they claim to be their pride and joy is also their greatest weakness.” You are allowed to sit down, and look down at your notebook to avoid seeing too much of his smirk. “Even if you do not kill them, you ground them. Which a Heron could maybe handle - (but those you don’t wanna kill anyway, those you put in a cage) - but a Hawk? No. A grounded Hawk is no Hawk at all. They will beg you for death… Or just end themselves for you.” He shoots the class a wink. “Now, we will practice next week. Your first hunt, isn’t that exciting? Make sure to get your training in.”

The bell rings, and you are free. For now. As everyone packs their books, so do you, casting a glance at the training bow next to you.

Is this truly the end to which you train yourself? Is this the glory of Daein?

—

“Oi, Leonardo!” You freeze, and slowly turn at the sound of your classmates’ voices behind you.

“We’re going out for a hunt tomorrow. You’ll come, right? You got a good eye,” the other boy says, a challenge clear in his eyes. “I wanna see if you can bring down a Hawk or a Raven.”

“I’m sure he can! It’s gonna look so awesome!”

“Yeah! Make them go wfhioooooo— SPLAT!”

Laughter follows, each pair of eyes burrowing into you, each compliment like a burden on your shoulders. Can you? Of course you can. That, you are not worried for - it is not your reputation that is at stake. But…

You find that you do not want to. You just do not want to.

“But we’re not old enough yet, are you sure?…” You try to find some kind of excuse, some explanation, that will let you delay that moment, even if for a few days. “Besides, next week we’ll…”

“Pshaw, don’t be a scaredy cat. We can start making a name for ourselves earlier than that, right?” The first boy shrugs. “Besides - s’just slavery runaways anyway. What danger are they to us?” He puts his hands on his hips, the look he gives you hardy, a hint of an accusation already sneaking in. “So, what say you? See you tomorrow, yeah?”

Slavery runaways. Something in your heart sinks at the phrase, and the realization you can no longer say no, and they know that.

They will hate you for it. They will think you a villain for it.

But that is the rule of Daein. That is the law of Daein. Sub-humans are evil and must be eradicated. This is their head, or yours. So you nod, pretending you were convinced, where in reality you simply do not want to die just yet.

Is this the glory of Daein?

—

There is no hunt the next day. The brave boys ready to take on sub-human refugees cower and scream before the Begnion soldiers, and so do you.

There will not be a hunt for you and your classmates ever again. You will be the only one who shall get away, and they will become one with those they wanted to kill. Because who cares about slaves and prisoners, anyway.

With a training sword, a damaged bow and three arrows, you will live to see another day, whether you like it or not. You will find a new family. You will become a freedom fighter, pointing your weapon at the occupiers, piercing each weak point with deadly precision,

all for the glory of Daein.

—

From the walls of Nox Castle, you stand silent, watching the approaching laguz army. Amidst soldiers excited for a sub-human hunt, who do not know better, who have no idea why they truly are here, who could almost pass for your classmates if you listen hard enough - (they are not your classmates. Your classmates are dead and you know it.) - you look up at Micaiah leading the army from the position above, nod at her hand outstretched in command, wordlessly load up an arrow onto Lughnasadh, take a deep breath, and watching the Hawks on the horizon, remind yourself: heart and wing joints.

All for the glory of Daein.

—

Mere days later, you fight by the Hawk King’s side. He tears at a soldier who wanted to stab you. You shoot at a ballistician who attempted to target him. Amidst a crisis greatest of all, a world frozen in time, a goddess’ judgment cast upon the land, you aim your bow, your hand is true, and a light smile creases your lips.

For finally, for once in your life, you feel as though you and your weapon fight where they are supposed to.

… Is this the glory of Daein?

—

Months later, you are miles and miles away from home, at a different military academy, raising your bow against the training target board.

The war is over, the country recovering. Hawks and Daein soldiers alike are back in their homes. The former are no longer fleeing for their lives across the deadly mountains; the latter are no longer organizing hunts. Some are probably still disappointed about that, but these changes take time.

“No more hunts, eh?” You hear that boy’s voice behind your ear as you take aim. The others gather up behind you as well, watching and observing.

“You know what, maybe it’s not so bad actually.” He continues with a shrug. “Maybe there are better things to shoot.”

“Like what?” You ask.

“Well, you know. Your enemies. The real ones, I mean.”

You smile lightly, nod, and let the arrow fly, scoring dead in the center.

All for the glory of Daein.

[godkilller]

How do you think Gin got his Bankai? We know that some zanpakuto have complex personalities, but I think that Shinsou would be lenient towards Gin. Perhaps he even talked him out of life for the sake of revenge, but in the end he gave in because Gin is a stubborn boy. And I'd really like to hear what you think about Shinsou's appearance! What is his gender, how does he look like? :o

out of character. I've covered Gin achieving Bankai before -- it involved fighting against the giant 13km-length serpent form of Kamishini no Yari and trying to not get eaten. In my interpretation, Gin's Zanpakuto embodies wrath, and given we have to remember these spirits are a part of their wielder's own souls, it makes sense that from the beginning Shinso was wholly on board with the concept of revenge. It's why Gin excelled so swiftly in the Academy, and how he quickly gained mastery of his Shikai within that singular year before graduating and immediately making it into the Gotei 13 as a seated officer. He had enough mastery of his Shikai to be known for it as 'hundred-span' when still just a kid.

Shinso is a ruthless assassination-based sniper-esque weapon when in just its Shikai, but especially its Bankai, so I've always pictured that Shinso's demeanor is soldier-like in severity and focus. I also lean heavily into symbolism and mythology with Shinso being the serpent attempting to swallow the sun (Aizen/the Hogyoku) and many stories of various religions and cultures revolving around that eternal rivalry and inevitable failure of said serpentine figure. By all means, if Hitsugaya Toshiro is considered a genius and has a deity-esque Zanpakuto, who's to say Kamishini no Yari isn't deity-level, too? Gin did it first, he broke the records and he has a quite literally labeled 'divine' Zanpakuto. Plus, the concept of the divine being the only ones allowed to/capable of killing another divine is something I enjoy utilizing in my story-telling. Kamishini no Yari is divine, and it seeks to devour other divinities (ex; Aizen, the Hogyoku which harbors the same substance that encases the Soul King, etc.) but anyways that's all an aside. Ultimately, Shinso is wholly supportive of and perhaps even toxic in its enabling and facilitating of Gin since he was a boy to go down the destructive and wrathful route.

Gin achieved his Bankai after an extensive series of training sessions within his inner world and Shinso wanted Gin to prove himself capable of stowing emotions of fear and the fear of death via facing the possibility of being eaten whole before he could fully finish a blink. It was a battle of reaction timing and facing the near-inevitability of dying, and Gin was able to prove himself capable of handling such a scenario without despairing (another theme within the Third Division, the beauty and despair of death/battle, etc.) not because he doesn't value his life, but because he needed to showcase complete control over his emotions.

Gin is stubborn and part of that is why Shinso grew fond enough of the boy to hand him over the power of a hundred blades, but ultimately Shinso's loyalty to Gin is because he views this revenge like a divine mission, a right, and Gin is the vessel for it -- something akin to that, though Shinso's not always so righteous. In my canon divergence stories where Gin survives Aizen, Shinso (and Gin) is knocked down a peg in terms of ego and confidence. The poison failed on Aizen, it was an utter blow to Shinso's pride. The spirit feels that they failed Gin so horribly that they retreat inwards and incase themselves in ice. Gin has to dig him out in this drabble.

Shinso takes on the appearance of Gin in some scenarios -- he'll appear to Gin looking like the boy from the Rukongai, even when Gin himself is an adult. I have an old blog for Shinso himself here. Otherwise, Shinso takes on something of a mix of what Gin looks like -- almost like an older brother appearance, since their dynamic early on nearly felt like kin, as Gin could turn to no one else but his inner world's companion to confide in during his plotting stages and attempts to become strong enough to kill Aizen and avenge Rangiku. Shinso sounds and appears male at times but with a feminine touch, and the voice they speak in can be overlapped with various genders and ages simultaneously, signifying the deity's immense and overlapping presence in other myths.

Shinso will oftentimes appear as a grand large silver serpent spanning across mountain ranges of thick gleaming coils, scales akin to plates of armored metal, with a striking speed 500 times faster than the speed of sound. It's an elegant and terrifying sight to see them hoisted up, blade-like tongue darting out with speeds fast enough to make snapping gusts of air pierce forth, and massive fangs larger than Gin's entire body. This is, after all, a beast worthy of godly status hoping to devour the sun, thinly related to or a branching off from Apep in ancient Egyptian mythology.

Hope this was insightful! Ultimately, you can have your headcanons about Gin and Shinso, but when coming to my blog to ask me about mine, keep in mind that my concepts are my own and valid, too!

[aimlessarchery]

😨 FEARFUL - when scared, do they go into “flight” or “fight”?

emoji ask meme

I think Python's natural leaning is toward "flight". The loosest reasoning I have for this is his tendency to suggest fleeing multiple times in the DLC, and/or showing some pretty obvious distress when his comrades insist on charging into hairy situations. That's not really the same as being in a "fight or flight" scenario, though. Still, I think it flows well with his general character as someone who tends to avoid and deflect rather than confront problems head-on. However! I also think his years as a soldier somewhat forced him to adapt and learn to tap into a "fight" response instead. I sort of poked at this concept when I wrote Python's sniper mastery drabble—I imagine that in his very first taste of real combat, he had the urge to flee. It's not like he really wanted to be there, after all. He was there because Forsyth was there, and he couldn't abandon his best friend in the thick of the melee. That experience, over and over again, is what led him to now be able to stand his ground on a battlefield despite his prior natural flight response.

[yewfallen]

   You had been twelve when you had killed your first victim.

You had left your village, bow in hand, looking around the big, wide world outside of what little you had known, looking for someone— anyone, really. You hadn't cared who it was, so long as it wasn't someone you knew.

You hadn't even learned his name before you had shot him through the throat. You watched as he bled, waited in the bushes to make sure he wasn't going to be moving, and then you had descended upon his belongings, taking what you could for yourself.

It had been a kill done just to see if you could. You had hunted game before, but you had never hunted humans.

You think about that guy sometimes. You wonder where he was going, where he'd come from, if he had been ready to die. In Jugdral, death comes quickly for many. Perhaps you were to be burned. Perhaps you were to be sent to the child hunts. Perhaps you were to go down in glory as some epic knight on the battlefield.

But you're grateful for the guy by the end of it. His corpse had been the proof that you could kill people, and you would exchange that service for money. It is in his death that you found out how to survive, and it is in his blood you found the strength to support the lives of many.

You took your shiny bow all the way to House Friege, and you had shed the act of a father to orphans. For their sakes, you hardened your gaze, hardened your voice, and eventually you hardened your heart too.

You found out royalty has a lot more people they want dead than you expected, but it works out for you, really. Who cares if some heir being set up for an advantageous marriage dies? Who cares if some noble vying for a region of land dies?

You don't. You never cared too much about the affairs of the aristocracy, and you know if you started, you wouldn't be able to do your job, and if you can't do your job, then the little ones back home will be the ones to pay for it.

You burn the image of them starving some days, moaning in pain against untended to illnesses other days, and you use it to remind yourself why you are right to kill every single name that comes your way on a contract.

Humans can do anything, so long as they believe they're doing the right thing after all.

The money comes in as do the hits. You've lost count of how many people you've killed, how many political conflicts you've influenced with your actions, and so on. You just know House Friege is happy, and so long as they are, you can make the children counting on you back home happy too.

Your days of no longer caring end however when you are told a new, unexpected name to kill:

Seliph Baldos Chalphy.

Though you try to remain ignorant to the world of nobles, you've heard the news. Seliph, son of traitor Sigurd and Imperial Empress Deirdre, is leading the rebel force through Isaach and is rallying the first, real threat to the Grannvale Empire.

So he's making his way down to the Munster District too, huh.

Your conscience begins to gnaw at you, and for the first time, you reject a contract. However, when your King tells you just how much money he's willing to pay you for this job, you find you no longer can.

The little ones need you. And so you set out.

                                          —————————

Lots of things have happened since then.

You had quit your job at your sister's plea. You had joined the army of the very man you had been contracted to kill, and you had discovered you were a noble yourself, and you had found a new way to support the orphans through that.

But that did not give you the happy ending you were looking for. You went back to Munster, hoping to find your mother, and in doing so, you had been swept out to sea and wound up on Adrestian shores instead.

Once more, you find yourself chained to another house of blue-bloods: this time, you are the ward to House Guillaume. Their liege likes you for the same reasons House Friege had: the holy bow on your back.

Lady Guillaume wants you to stay with her forever. She thinks you shall.

You had thought so too, but things have changed.

You remember your home. You remember your desire to go back. One day, your family members attending Garreg Mach will return to Yngvi, and you will want to join them.

But you can't— not for as long as you are indebted to House Guillaume. Not for as long as they maintain power over you and can send any number of people to hunt you. Not for as long as they hold their investments into you over your head, and they could potentially affect House Yngvi's politics by being linked to you, House Yngvi's rightful heir.

And so you pick up your bow again, and you prowl the night. You enter the underbelly of Fódlan, and you allow your skills to go to the highest bidder. You shoot Yewfelle's arrows, killing any number of people for any number of reasons given, but the only reason you care for is the money.

You had gotten yourself into this mess, and you'd be using this newfound money to find your way out.

You had found a way to justify killing people once; you can do it again. No matter the fairytale backstory you are given, at your heart, you know what you are: you're a killer, and perhaps you always will be.

CLASS MASTERED: Assassin.

[aimlessarchery]

November Activity 

Skill Points

+1 Monthly +1 Lance [ Thread ]

Total: 23

Allocated:

Bow A → A (14) Lance D+ → C

Class Accessed: Cavalier

Rank Up Reward: 

- Blessed Lance

Class Mastered: Sniper [ Drabble ]

Mastery Reward:

- Hunter’s Volley

[aimlessarchery]

Quartered Away - Sniper Mastery Drabble [571 words]

[readmore is for length, but also general CW for animal death and descriptions of battlefield violence below]

"You’re a gifted archer, so use the gifts you have."

The only "gift" that Python's skill with a bow had earned him was the right to stay in the back lines rather than having a pike bundled into his arms like the rest of the recruits. He wasn't some savant born with a silver bow in hand, either. It had been a light hazel bowstave dropped into the hands of a restless child—an offering from a parent who insisted on practicality in her gestures at warmth. Or an excuse to get out of the house, maybe.

He'd been trained on rabbits first. They're small and swift, but more plentiful than larger game that frequented the forest around the edges of the village. It was safer to lose three pounds of meat than one hundred, after all.

He was ten years old when he loosed his first arrow meant to take a life. In his hands he cradled the limp, furry body of a little brown hare. Its head drooped off the edge of his palm as he offered it up for his mother's inspection. Her eyes, dark and sharp as always, cut right to the arrow still protruding from the creature's hindquarters. She shook her head.

"Bad shot, boyo."

Frustration bubbled up in his chest. It got the job done, hadn't it? (Technically, it kinda hadn't. The creature had fled, hobbling frantically on its remaining functional legs and leaving a trail of blood in its wake all through the glade. Python had chased it down until he found it huddled in trying to hide amongst the leaves. He picked it up and snapped its neck the same way that Ma did when she grabbed a chicken for dinner. He'd hoped she wouldn't notice. She always notices things.) He swallowed down the urge to throw the quiver off of his back and stomp on it.

Her finger brushed the fletching of the arrow, then trailed up to tap at its chest, right by the front leg. He watched the journey with his mouth pulled into a tight frown.

"You gotta aim for the heart 'n lungs. Make it a swift kill. It's better for the both of you that way."

-

A decade or so of practice in the forests did little to steady Python's rabbit-quick pulse on the battlefield. The clash of iron and steel rattled his bones, shouting voices overlapping into one deafening, bloody chorus as the infantry lines collided at the foot of the hill below. A craven voice in the back of his mind begged him to run, but he couldn't. Not without the fool who dragged the both of them into this mess in tow— and Forsyth was down the hill with the infantry, in the middle of the roiling crowd. The tip of his lance was already stained dark when it bobbed up above the small sea of helmeted heads.

A fresh glint of steel caught Python's eye. An axe swept through the air in a taunting gesture, the wielder too far behind Forsyth's armored shoulder to be seen in his periphery. When the brigand raised his arm, Python drew his bowstring. The arrow pierced clean through the man's side. The axe clattered to the mud as both hands clawed at his own chest, gasping for breaths that came up choked and wet. He'd collapsed within seconds.

"Better for the both of us that way," Python murmured.