#poor baby transfixed by arrow

[curioussubjects]

Kara has ADHD in every episode: "Kobol's Last Gleaming (Part 2)"

[jahaanofmenaphos]

Art by the awesome @tommieglenn!

Of Gods and Men Summary:

When the gods returned to Gielinor, their minds were only on one thing: the Stone of Jas, a powerful elder artefact in the hands of Sliske, a devious Mahjarrat who stole it for his own ends and entertainment. He claims to want to incite another god wars, but are his ulterior motives more sinister than that? And can the World Guardian, Jahaan, escape from under Sliske’s shadow?

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QUEST 01: THE TEMPLE KNIGHTS

QUEST SUMMARY:

After a troll attack on Burthorpe, Jahaan’s superiors take an interest in him and send him off to Sir Tiffy with the aim of making him a Temple Knight. However, it’s not as easy as signing on the dotted line…

CHAPTER 2: KNIGHTLY

Looking down at the tiny little section of his tent where his bunk sat, Jahaan suddenly felt very sentimental. This ten by ten square of cloth and grass had been his home for the past two years. He’d had bunkmates come and go, but there he remained.

From under his low bed he dragged out a tattered rucksack, dusted it off, and opened it up wide. All that was inside it was his paypackets from his time in the Guard, alongside a thick sweater and an amulet he was given in Menaphos as a child, just before he left the desert city.

Then, he pulled out everything he’d kept over the years from beneath the bed: a small fishing net, an iron dagger he’d smithed himself, a bronze hatchet, a tinderbox, and a handful of runes for some of the simplest of spells.

After carefully packing all of these into his rucksack, he searched around the rest of the tent for some spare rations he could commandeer for his travels. All he managed to find were stale bread rolls and a couple of bruised bananas. Frowning, he packed them anyhow, hoping the Temple Knights would feed him better than he was used to.

“Knock knock,” Ozan called out from outside the tent, poking his head in and examining the lavish surroundings. “You all packed?”

“Yep,” Jahaan confirmed. “Are you sure you want to risk coming to Falador with me? Didn’t you say the White Knights had a warrant out of you for trying to steal Sir Vyvin’s armour?”

Ozan snorted. “I’d rather take my chances with the White Knights than the white wolves on that mountain. I’m sailing to Catherby from Port Sarim, so it’s on my way.”

Shuddering at the thought of traversing White Wolf Mountain - once is enough for a lifetime; very few people survive it twice - Jahaan agreed Ozan’s chances with the Falador army were much better than those beasts. Besides, it gave them a chance to spend some quality time with their adopted troll baby, who as they were talking, chewed at his bunkmates bed linen.

“Seeing Ariane, are we?” Jahaan guessed with a wink.

Ozan broke out into a blush. “Maybe…”

The next morning, they were ready to leave. Well, Jahaan was - it took a few kicks to wake Ozan up at the early hour. After saying his goodbyes to his former comrades, Jahaan and Ozan left the principality and headed into Burthorpe’s town centre, making straight for Doric’s armoury. Over his time in the Guard, Jahaan had grown rather fond of the dwarf that owned the shop. He was always on hand to fix his dented armour, reminisce about battles since gone, or just share a pint of ale, or two, or seven...

The little bell rang as soon as Jahaan entered the hut, and he was greeted by a jolly smile from the dwarven store-owner. “Jahaan!” his gruff voice cheered.

However, as soon as the dwarf set his eyes upon Ozan, his warm demeanour slipped away in a heartbeat.

“Hey, no! You! Get out! Get!” he grabbed the newspaper next to him, rolled it up and repeatedly banged it on the counter, occasionally pointing it up at Ozan, who stood baffled in the doorway.

“What?! What have I- HEY!”

The dwarf resorted to throwing things from his perimentre at Ozan, luckily veering towards stationary and papers rather than one of the myriad of weapons that surrounded him. Jahaan didn’t dare step between them, but he tentatively reached his hands out, trying to calm this particular storm without landing a tape measure to his skull.

“Doric, take it easy!” he pleaded, snapping at Ozan, “Wait outside.”

Still completely perplexed by the dwarf’s hostility, shielding his face with his arms, Ozan wailed, “I haven’t done anything!”

“I find that hard to believe. Now close the door behind you.”

Once he was content Ozan had left, the dwarf untensed his shoulders, calming his angry breathing. Putting down the ruler-turned-spear, he said, “You shouldn’t hang around with scum like him.”

Exhaling deeply, Jahaan straightened his collar out and asked, “What happened between you two?”

“My wife!” he exclaimed, loudly. “He went for my wife!”

“I did not ‘go’ for your wife,” Ozan defended, muffled from beyond the door. “I was just being polite to her!”

From the impact of the hammer Doric threw against the door, the wood splintered quite grandly.

Gruffly, Doric continued, “Philanderin’ cad… I won’t have him anywhere near my shop.”

“Yeah, this does not come as a surprise to me,” Jahaan concurred, ignoring the insulted outcry from outside. “I just came to say my goodbyes. I’m on my way to Falador - Commander Denulth has recommended me for the Temple Knights,” he could barely contain his pride.

The dwarf shared in his glee too, his eyes lighting up like the distant stars. The glint in them was warmer than a thousand candles. Rushing around the counter, he squeezed Jahaan in a tight embrace, nearly crushing Jahaan’s hips as he did. “My boy! I’m so proud of you, laddy. Ahh you’ll make a fine knight. Promise you’ll come back and visit, only without that good-for-nothin’ behind you.”

Winking slyly, Jahaan replied, “How about I promise you that he’ll never step foot in Burthorpe again, lest he lose one of the two things he prizes the most?”

A smirk broke out on Doric’s hardy face. “Sounds fair to me. Oh, before you go, I wanna give you somethin’...”

Brushing off Jahaan’s assurances that he needn’t gift him anything, Doric began rummaging in the back of his shop. When he returned from the store room, he was holding a razor sharp, beautifully crafted, cyan blue dagger. He offered it up to Jahaan, who’s shining eyes were transfixed on the perfect blade, mouth agape. “I’ve just started smithin’ runite. This one turned out the best.”

Jahaan breathed out, slowly. He’d never even held runite before. “For… for me?”

“That’s right, laddy. Here, take it.”

Very delicately, Jahaan plucked the dagger from Doric’s hands, holding it as gentle as if it were a newborn baby.

Laughing, Doric exclaimed, “Those things are meant for fightin’, you don’t need to be so scared of the damn thing. Hold it like a man!”

Feeling more comfortable with Doric’s assurance, Jahaan switched up his stance and twirled the blade around it fingers, a trick he’d learnt from a fellow guardsman a year back.

“That’s my boy!” Doric slapped Jahaan on the back, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re a good lad. Don’t die out there.”

Tucking the blade in his belt, Jahaan smiled warmly. “Don’t worry, I don’t plan to.”

When Jahaan emerged from Doric’s store, he saw Ozan had given the storefront a wide berth. The younger man’s eyes shot to Jahaan’s hip, eyes wide and shining. “Whoa, is that a dagger in your belt, or are you just happy to see me?”

Grinning, Jahaan took it from his hip and allowed Ozan to carefully inspect it. “A parting gift from Doric. He told me to castrate you with it if you returned to Burthorpe.”

Instantly, Ozan pushed the blade back in Jahaan’s direction. “Well, I’ll cross this off my holiday destination list then.”

“Seriously though, Doric’s WIFE?”

“I didn’t know she was his wife!” Ozan protested, like a child desperately proclaiming he didn’t spill the ink while covered head to toe in it. “Come on, we can probably make it to Taverley in time for dinner if we pick up the pace. This pretty face does not scream ‘wild camping’.”

They made it to Taverley by twilight. At Ozan’s insistence, they stayed at one of the nicest little bed and breakfasts in the small town. In exchange for a few gold coins and a couple of pints, Ozan regaled the patrons of the establishment with daring tales of how he defeated the legendary ‘three-headed mountain jackal of Nardah’ with only a slingshot and some rotten fruit. Naturally, he’d embellished a little… the jackal only had one head, and he had a bow and arrow to fight it off. The only reason it was vicious in the first place was that, drunkenly, Ozan thought it’d be funny to throw a rotten apple at it. Still, the patrons seemed to get a kick out of the tale, and Jahaan wasn’t about to pass up free ale.

The next morning, after a hearty breakfast for themselves and a half a can of garbage for Coal, they set off for Falador.

The crisp, beautiful weather of northern Gielinor shined on them that morning; glistening dew graced the grasslands that bordered their pathway, while the early morning sun bathed everything in an amber glow, carving out a picturesque scenery that stretched out before them. Along their travels, they encountered many other citizens making their journeys between the two cities. Some pushed carts full of wares and goods to market wherever the market took them; Jahaan had to drag Ozan away by his hair on more than one occasion - the man was like a magpie for anything shiny.

Coal was testing out his little legs to the maximum, determined to keep up with the two of them. The poor thing was barely as high as their shins, so Ozan and Jahaan took it in turns to let him sit on their shoulder as they traversed the pathways. Coal’s eyes shined with glee at the excitement of being up high.

They reached the high walls of Falador by twilight, white bricks tinted pink in the evening shadow. Half a dozen White Knights stood watch outside the entrance, with more pacing the fortifications above them.

Suddenly, Ozan stopped walking and passed Coal to Jahaan. With a wince, he hopped backwards a few steps. “Uhh you two go on without me. I’ll find a more interesting way inside.”

Rolling his eyes, Jahaan pointed out, “I thought you said they wouldn’t remember.”

“I did? Well…” he laughed nervously. “I mean, they probably wouldn’t, but… they have big swords, and after all that walking, I really don’t fancy having to make a run for it. You know, IF they happened to remember. Which they probably wouldn’t. But-”

“Just go,” Jahaan interrupted, shaking his head with a grin. “I’ll meet you at the Rising Sun Inn. If you don’t get thrown in the castle dungeon, that is…”

Modern day Falador was founded in the Year 8 of the Fifth Age, and with a population of over a hundred thousand, it stood as one of the largest cities in all of Gielinor, and the capital of the Asgarnia region. Citizens came from far and wide to trade in the market square that bustles from dawn to dusk, or to enjoy the variety of inns offering a wide range of scrumptious dishes. The main attraction, however, was the White Knights Castle, the largest fortress in the Saradominist world, managing to stand superior to the castles of the kings in surrounding regions. Though technically Falador was still a kingdom, the king - King Vallance - has no power in the city. As he is very old and very ill, the White Knights gained political supremacy in his absence, and in order to ‘protect’ the king, they moved him to an undisclosed location. Many speculate the king is long since dead, but voicing such rumours isn’t wise if one values their tongue. The impressive military of the White Knights and the Faladian City Guards have long held back sieges from the Black Knights of the North, along with keeping at bay smaller Zamorakian plots and civil unrest spurred from those not content with the vice-like grip the Knights hold on the city.

With a friendly nod to the Knights he passed, Jahaan stepped forward into the perfectly paved, pristine city of Falador. Instantly, the crowds hit him, a pained cry from the blissful serenity outside the walls. Knowing he’d have to be ruthless, Jahaan steeled himself and weaved his way determinedly through the masses, mercilessly carving a path for himself. Though he tried his best to dodge and weave, sometimes a stern shunt to the shoulder is necessary to kick-start the idle legs of lazy tourists.

It’d been quite a while since Jahaan had last been in Falador, but he was too proud to ask for directions. Deciding the main road was doing nothing for his sanity, he thought it’d be wise to try and bypass the crowds by dipping into the side streets and making his way across the city through them.

About an hour later, and after passing the same barber’s three times, he regretted everything.

“Ozan better spin a really good tale to buy us dinner…” he grumbled to himself, continuing through the darkening city in what he hoped was the right direction. Coal was already growling with hunger; it took a lot of energy he didn’t have to keep the troll from trying to eat everything they passed.

After gods knew how long, he finally stumbled into the Rising Sun Inn, just as the sun had set. Ozan was already waiting there, at the bar, surrounded by two ladies and three pints of ale. Seeing an exhausted Jahaan stagger over the the bar top, he tutted and said, “And here I thought you were standing me up. Thank goodness I had these lovely young ladies to console my wounded heart.”

Trying and failing to a muster a polite smile to Ozan’s company, Jahaan slumped over the bar and motioned for a drink. “Dinner’s on you,” was all he said before he closed his eyes and tried to remember what silence sounded like.

Jahaan didn’t fully remember the large roast lamb Ozan had ordered for the two of them, accompanied by another two pints of ale. He didn’t remember Ozan joining in with the local musician who sang Oh Tales of The Elves three times on Ozan’s behest, until the patrons were so sick of it they threw a shoe at him. Jahaan didn’t remember the bar fight that ensued, not after the shoe incident - Ozan had shrugged that off with a laugh - but when he overheard someone saying he sounded like a strangled oxen. He didn’t remember four pints of ale dotted between these events, or the three that followed. He didn’t even remember going to bed, so it was quite a shock when he woke up with Ozan curled up next to him, sporting a fearsome looking black eye and cuddling Coal.

Jahaan’s pounding, swirling head, however, did not thank him for it. After revisiting last night in half a bucket, Jahaan at least felt well enough to rouse Ozan. However, he quickly thought better of it - the last time he dealt with one of Ozan’s hangover’s still gave him nightmares.

Instead, he stretched out his muscles, picked up his dagger and backpack, and went downstairs to eat the blandest thing on the inn’s menu.

A hearty breakfast of weak tea and unbuttered bread later, Jahaan was ready to face the world. Then, he opened the door, and shrivelled as the midday sun pierced his retinas and scorched his very soul, igniting his previously dulled headache.

“This is going to be a long day…” Jahaan sighed to himself, taking a deep breath before making his way towards Falador Park.

Falador was home to the largest park inside of any city in Gielinor; thirty acres of lush grass and neatly plotted flowerbeds, all attentively tended to by farmers from across the city. Alongside beautiful rows of multi-coloured petals were many patches of crops that helped feed the citizens of the Kingdom of Asgarnia.

The man he needed to speak to - Sir Tiffy Cashien - was known for spending most afternoons by one of the ponds in Falador Park. It stretched a quarter of the length of the city, with ponds, fields, trees and flower gardens to while away the hours around. The last time Jahaan had passed through, he saw the revered Knight gleefully feeding the hungry ducks half a loaf of bread in the oval shaped pond near the centre of the park, but he’d never dared approach the man before. In all honesty, Jahaan was rather embarrassed to introduce himself. He didn’t want to look like a fool, or trip over his words, or his laces, or anything that fate would deign rather amusing in front of one of his heroes.

After wandering the perimeter enough to confidently shake off his hangover, or at least shrink it to a reasonable size, he made towards the oval pond.

Here, predictably, he found Sir Tiffy Cashien sipping delicately at a cup of tea.

Before he started to approach him, however, his eyes caught sight of the six marble statues bordering the eastern edge of the pond. Halting in his tracks, he swallowed down bile that rose to his throat. The familiar eyes of the statues seemed to be following him, staring through his very being.

Taking a long, quivering breath, Jahaan shook his head, as if to physically shake the thoughts from his mind. Then, he steadied his resolve back to the task at hand.

Rummaging through his backpack, he plucked out the sealed envelope and, with as much grace and confidence as he could muster, walked up to the knight.

Sir Tiffy’s Temple Knight armour gleamed in the sunlight, wrapping around him like a golden cloak. Despite his age, his physical stature was still rather impressive, and his accolades spoke for themselves: decorated warrior, expert swordsman, and a soldier in the War of 164. Now he headed up recruitment for the Temple Knights, a Saradominist military organisation. Jahaan had always dreamed of meeting the man in person, only hearing tales of his bravery and valour around campfires in Burthorpe.

When Jahaan approached, he was greeted with an astonishingly welcoming smile that warmed his heart. “Good day, m’lad! How may I help you?”

“Sir Tiffy Cashien,” Jahaan kelt, bowing his head low. “I bring correspondence from Commander Denulth of the Imperial Guard of Burthorpe.”

If he had been looking into his eyes, Jahaan would have noticed Sir Tiffy sour at the name. “Hm. I hope this here isn’t another conscription request. I say, I get about one a month, what?”

After motioning for Jahaan to rise, Sir Tiffy carefully prised off the seal, slipped the letter out of its envelope and readjusted his monocle before beginning to read. The natural friendliness in his features gradually returned the further down he read. Once he was done, he carefully folded the letter up and tucked it away into his little satchel, regarding Jahaan with a curious expression.

“The commander has a lot to say about you, young lad,” Sir Tiffy remarked. “He thinks I should make you a Temple Knight. What do you make of that?”

As he rehearsed, Jahaan replied, “It would be an honour to serve the kingdom, sir.”

“Ah, but we don’t just serve the kingdom, m’lad - we serve Saradomin,” Sir Tiffy pointed out. As he spoke, his long white beard tickled his chin, and it made him smile even more. There was an air of joy about the man as he fumbled his way around a sentence, sipping his tea intermittently and with delight. “Are you a Saradominist, son?”

Jahaan bit the inside of his lip. “Yes sir.”

It didn’t fool Sir Tiffy, evidently, as the man raised an eyebrow and pressed, “Are you really, lad? To be honest, it doesn’t really matter to me - unless you’re a Zamorakian, you can become a Temple Knight. Traditions aren’t my cup of tea. Tea is my cup of tea, here. Are you a Zamorakian, my boy?”

“No sir.”

“Guthixian, perhaps? You spent a lot of time with them up there in Burthorpe,” Sir Tiffy guessed, curiosity growing tenfold when Jahaan said he wasn’t. “Well, what then?” his eyebrows narrowed. “You aren’t another one of those cabbage worshippers, are you? Son, if I come across another one of those nutrition-guided fanatics I’ll-”

“I’m not particularly religious, sir,” Jahaan broke in, trying not to smirk at Sir Tiffy’s flurry. “I mean, I grew up in the desert, and they have the Pantheon, but I wouldn’t call myself an avid practicer of anything.”

Sir Tiffy seemed a little perturbed by this. “Not religious, m’lad? Hmph. Rare to see one of those nowadays. Well, better than the cabbage god.”

Taking the final sip of his tea, Sir Tiffy took his time to breathe in the fresh air around him, admiring the ducklings playing in the nearby pond. “I’ve got something that needs urgent attention, but these ol’ bones weren’t meant for travelling. One of our operatives - Sir Tendeth - is on his way back from a reconnaissance mission, gathering information about a possible attack on human settlements. He’ll be sailing back from Mos Le'Harmless tonight. Go to Port Sarim to meet him, and bring him back here safely. He's undercover, so he’ll probably be dressed as a pirate. Help me here, and I’ll make you a Temple Knight in no time.”

Suppressing his urge to grin in excitement, Jahaan once again bowed low. “Yes sir!”

DISCLAIMER:

As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.

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[ecmontage]

Shoot for the Trees

The white airbag came out of nowhere, smashing into my face. A sharp blinding pain ripped up my side. I started to panic, trapped between the steering wheel and the seat, the bright light of my phone dimmed, leaving me in darkness. The shattered remains of the driver’s window surrounded me. I struggled to open the door, but it was bent in by force and was unmovable. Shards of glass were ripping into my skin; blood seeped from the jagged cuts. As I sat there in the dark, I wondered if I would see my life flash before my eyes. I hoped so; I wanted to see the sum of my existence, played before my eyes like my funeral montage. I waited, nothing happened. Crap.

I yelled out, waiting for a response. Surely this road wasn’t that deserted? I could still taste the alcohol on my breath, my stomach clenched, an iron band tightening as I realized that taking the last drink probably wasn’t my brightest idea. My eyes were adjusting to the darkness, I looked around for inspiration. I wasn’t sure what the protocol for being trapped in your car was. The passenger side of the car was littered with odds and ends, to be honest it actually looked tidier than it did before the accident. Last weeks “to go” wrappers were almost in a neater pile, thrown against the back of the seat. Amidst the booze and sweat stained 12 hour shift shirts, thrown carelessly towards the side of the car, was a medal, a bow carved into the shining gold reflected in the dim moonlight. I laughed almost deliriously, my head still spinning from the alcohol and shock. What if I died, I would never be able to pick up a bow again. At least my deaths highlight reel would feature my first major achievement in life.

I remember picking up the wooden bow, it felt weird, light. Not what I had expected at all. Joking and laughing with the other students, trying to hide my confusion. I wasn’t even sure which way up the bow went, and why the string wasn’t even taunt. I gave a sideways glance, only to see equally confused looks on my fellow want to be archer’s faces. A thick French accent coated the room.

“You must first string the bow,” he yanked it from my hands, tutted at me as he turned it the right way up and proceeded to perform a complex set of tasks, which would soon become second nature to me. Annoyed at being the only one called out, I scowled at him, my eyes burning into his back. I was already looking like the noob, I needed to be good at this.

“Follow me,” he said, and as I walked outside into the sheep infested field clutching my cheap wooden bow tightly in my fist, I vowed I would show him and these other kids. The moment that first arrow left my hand showed them up I did.

Beginners shooting they called it, sometimes you just have a flare for archery, and before you really start having expectations, it’s easy. Ignorance is bliss they told me as I pounded out 10s. I was ignorant until I realized that I was good. Until I started noticing that the better you shoot, the more people look at you, and the more you want that ten, the lower those arrows drop.

The summer’s day was bright, with the almost wool-less sheep lazily chewing grass; one sheep had decided to station itself right to the side of me. Not really in the way of my shooting, but close enough to have to constantly keep a wary eye on any sheep suicide attempts. My form was feeling fine, great in fact. I had just sent my third ten smashing into the gold, but I could see my coach coming over, already looking intently at my front arm. My shoulders inevitably started to tighten, my stomach clenching. My hand jerked forward as I tried to release, the arrow veering off to the side, just barely hitting the target. Don’t miss again, you fool. Flustered I quickly drew another arrow, hoping to send this one into the gold. This time, it was my front arm that failed me, its tension giving way at the last second for a low right 6. His heavy hand slapped my shoulder.

“Kid, you should think about a tournament, there is one this weekend, I’ll coach you.”

“Yeah, nah,” I told him, looking over at my poor grouping, I hated it when he watched me shoot. I would make so many changes for him, only to have a week’s work ruined because of a single glance. I could only picture me going to pieces in front of strangers, and it terrified me.

“I have to work” I blurted out.

“Seriously?” he was scowling at me, like I was personally attacking him, “you are working for minimum wage at that screwed up bar, instead of going to the NI FITA?”

“Well, all the incredible amount of nothing there is to win for prize money won’t exactly pay the rent will it?” I laughed, passing off my rudeness as a joke.

“So you have to work 75 hour weeks? To pay for what, your friends booze?”

“Very funny, I’ll see you next week.” I didn’t look back as I stomped down the range to grab my arrows. Ignoring my coach’s scowls and his pointed muttering about talent wasted.

The music was loud, no louder than normal, but for some reason, my head could not adjust. Taking another large jug of Tiger beer outside was a relief, the air was cool, and I stood there for several seconds, subtly lifting up my arms to air out my armpits. Hoping that my pit stains weren’t too obvious I walking over to the group of twenty guys in suits, half of them already more than intoxicated. This group had been my baby since 4pm this afternoon. I had fed them and boozed them refilling drink after drink. Grooming them for a tip that would make the constant running back and forth, and rude remarks worth it. Here I was in my element. I knew this group would make this long shift worth it.

“Keep them coming girl,” the huge bearded man, surrounded by his employees, who had finally ceased to suck up to him as they had become more and more intoxicated, winked at me as I placed the jug of beer down. Picking up the three empty pitchers, I quickly made a judgment call, I could probably serve the group two more, and hopefully increase my tip a little in the next fifteen minutes, and they would be fine. After filling up another jug from behind the bar and grabbing yet another plate of their greasy food, I headed outside for the fiftieth time that night.

As I leaned in to clean out the chunks of vomit from the hand basin one hour later, I had plenty of time to analyze my poor decision making skills. Screw that last jug of beer. I had watched them as they had drunkenly staggered out, relieved that they were finally gone and I no longer had to be wary of fingers drunkenly pinching my ass. I ripped off my gloves, throwing them in the rubbish bin with disgust. Tying my apron back on I headed behind the bar, swiftly typing my code into the POS system, I gave a glance over the bill. My heart sank as my eyes reached the bottom. Those bastards. No tip.

It had taken several of my club members a lot of convincing, to drag me away from work for the weekend, and to fork out the overpriced entry fee. I knew people would be watching me shoot, even spectators would make the iron band tighten, my shoulders rising and fingers tensing, making a smooth shot an impossibility. Wellington was such a long way to go to fail.

I had shot well the first day, and to several people’s surprise, mostly my own I had placed in the top 5 only 3 points away from second place. The elimination matches had started early with number one being knocked out by a nobody from Taupo. “Anything could happen in matchplay.” The few spectators had told me. And anything did. The large warehouse was empty at one end save the two separated target butts, the little targets looked ten times tinier than normal, dull against the dark black stands. The spectators stood and sat around, most of them intently watching the Recurve Woman’s Gold medal match for the Indoor Nationals. The commentator was pretending to be much more excited about archery than was realistically possible.

“Ten from Cheree, and Rachel is drawing back to answer with… a 9. Cheree follows with another 9. 28 to 19, Rachel has to shoot a 9 to tie, or a 10 to win. She is coming up..” The crowd was hushed. A loud crack wrecked the air, as a portly man leaned back too far in the white plastic chair. I lost focus for a millisecond, my sight shaking around the gold. My shoulder was high, the tension lost in my back, this wasn’t going to be good.

“ohhh she lets down with 8 seconds on the clock, risky move. She’s coming up again, 3 seconds, and damn she shoots a 10! Right in the middle. The girl from Auckland takes it out.” Coming off the line shaking, I embraced my coach, barely hearing the commentator continuing to spout rubbish. The adrenaline was pumping, who knew such a calm sport could give such a hit?

Similar adrenaline continued to keep the inevitable pain away, somehow I wasn’t worried about getting out of the car. I was strangely calm, I didn’t believe in God, but I believed in second chances. The red seeping blood tricked like raindrops down a glass pane into a sea of red. I tried to wipe some of the blood off what was left of the window, as I drew my arm away the redness was thicker. Deserted on that lonely road, an inch at a time; I crawled through the window. The knowledge that I shouldn’t be alive sending shock waves of adrenaline. Looking back I can’t remember making it from the window to the grassy bank, I just know that the wreck was before me, wrapped in the tree, metal and wood becoming a single pile of junk. It was ok; I was ok. It was only money; I could get a new car. The air felt so good, the smell of burnt rubber only made the soft caress of the cool wind seem more invigorating. It was like I was high, high on life for the first time. I could feel the tears on my cheeks, the last few minutes had gone by so slowly each second turning into an hour. My eyes were transfixed by the car, but instead of terror I felt angry. The anger continued to build. How could I let a shitty job take over my life like this? I was letting the bar take my life away from me. I didn’t want to hide behind the bar, like a coward. I wanted to change, right that second. I would quit my job. I’m going to do it. I’m going to be good at something for once. Not just good, but amazing. I’m going to shoot. The idea of being scared because someone else was watching seemed ludicrous at that moment. I sat down on the bank, the wet grass soaking into my pants as the rain fell, just past the corner that I hadn’t even begun to slow down for. My body was shaking, emotions coursing through me. It was such an odd time to think about my sport, but despite the pain, I was oddly removed, smiling at my first near death experience. I pushed the hair out of my eyes, only to have it stay exactly where it was. I tried again, pausing to look down at my shooting arm, the absence of pain in my fingertips finally sinking in. My head the clearest it had been that night. Shit. I can’t move my fingers.