Archery

[Legolas Greenleaf]

*The prince smiles knowingly and nods toward the target, his hands sliding down his bow, unfastening the string and wrapping it carefully about the wood.*

It is my belief that in battle our natural skills make themselves known; you may be an expert archer on and off the field if on you do so well. I realize that your stance is the last thing you may think about when you are under attack, and I know from experience that this is true. But it is so much better to not have to worry about stance because it already comes naturally than because you don't have the time to think of it. Do I make sense?

[Imrel]

Aye.

*She nods.*

Tis better to do something right than to just hope it will work. Or something like that.

*Absentmindedly she slides another arrow from the quiver. It is passed between her hands for a while before eventually finding its way to the bowstring. Whil she fidgets, she wonders if Legolas will mind her asking the question she's about to put forth.*

How did you learn, Legolas?

[Legolas Greenleaf]

*Legolas smiles, albeit sadly, and turns toward the target, his mind quickly finding images of the past, archery lessons, easy as well as difficult.*

I learned by watching the best, dear Imrel. My father taught my brothers well; I learned from their lessons... and from my own mistakes.

[Ims]

None too drastic though, I'm sure?

*She smiles jovially, wishing to raise his spirits a little.*

I suppose it's how we all learn, and not just in archery.

[Legolas Greenleaf]

*The prince shrugs elegantly; what was drastic to one may not seem drastic to another. Archery was a very important skill and was treated as such among his people.*

Eventually I did learn and, with practice, became the best. *He grins.* And it is for that reason that I am the most sought-after when it comes to teaching the art of bowing.

*Nodding toward Im's bow, he asks curiously.*

Is that your own craft?

[Ims]

Then I am most fortunate to have you as a friend...

*She gives him a grateful nod before following his gesture.*

The bow?

*She smiles wistfully.*

If only I could be so adept at whittling... My father made it; it was once his. He gave it to me when I left home... He claimed his adventuring days where behind him and he wouldn't need it, whereas mine were all awaiting me.

*She looks down and fidgets with the bow string, realizing this came out rather proudly.*

It is not much, no where as fine as Elven craft, but it has served me well.

[Legolas Greenleaf]

*He smiles.*

There is no finer craft than that which is made with love and devotion.

*The prince nods again, motioning toward her bow.*

May I?

[Imrel]

Oh, by all means.

*Rather flattered, she fumbles to hand him the bow.*

[Legolas Greenleaf]

*The prince smiles, taking the bow with a nod of his head. He raises it slightly, taking in it's texture, it's color in the light; inhaling the scent of the strong but weathered wood, he closes his eyes, his hand gliding gently over the slightly grooved wood. The touch of the Elven prince took in the bow's very history, the owner before last, and the few that shot sparsely; their grips, how the more recent owner was polishing away the slight over-grip of the former, the prints of one with younger hands, their past. He tightens his grip, bending the bow slightly with his bare hands, weighing it's strength. Finally, Legolas opens his eyes and aims, arrowless, at the horizon. He smiles, handing over the bow once again with a grateful bow, his eyes smiling.*

I am speechless.

[Imrel]

*As is Imrel. She is astounded by his behaviour, and wonders what he had found in her bow to merit such approval. Feeling awkward at being bowed to by the Elven prince, she hastily falls into her own attempt at a graceful curtsy.*

Thank you.

*Staightening up, she comes back to her usual, cheery demeanor and gives Legolas a grin that makes her nose wrinkle.*

So, is it common for elves to make their own weaponry?

[Legolas Greenleaf]

*Smiling still, he nods, his gaze flowing elegantly over the landscape before falling back on Imrel.*

Yes, it is common; it is often expected, even, for a warrior to be skilled in making as well as shooting their own bows. One's strength, heart, and soul is naturally poured into one's craft, making the bow more powerful for its maker and shooter. Although it does not happen very often among elves, weapons passed on to the maker's children is also a way to connect. There is no stronger bond than that of parents and child, for that love is given and taken without need for explanation and without doubts of choice.

*He nods toward the bow, continuing.*

That bow is a work of art in both its craftsmanship as well as its power. Your father was skilled, but more importantly, he had passion and love to guide that skill.

[Imrel]

He still does.

*Her words are quiet, but it is evident she believes them strongly, in a humbly proud way. Corrin Briarthorn may no longer have the youth and vigour he used, but he still has a passion made graceful and refined by age, and though his skills are dusty and tarnished from disuse, they are still there. Imrel's eyebrows lax slightly. She's missed seeing him as of late.*

But how can you tell? I don't see how you could read that much from a bow...

[Legolas Greenleaf]

*The elven prince smiles knowingly; such a curious race. He gazes at the bow in her hands for another moment before taking his own again, reassembling it, and holding it out to her.*

Please, see for yourself. A bow holds its own history as well as that of the person wielding it.

[Imrel]

*Replacing her own bow at her belt, Im gingerly holds out her hands to take Legolas'. Her skin tingles slightly at the feel of the smooth wood. It's quite a comfortable thing to hold, she finds with some surprise. Neither too cumbersome nor fragile, and remarkably elegant, holding almost a subtle beauty. Shaking herself from the spellbound daze of holding an Elven craft, she looks at it more critically, willing herself to see its history. Perhaps it holds secrets. A smile alights in her eyes as the thought occurs to her. Eru knows its owner must... But then, if they are secrets, can she really hope to coax them out?

*She sighs inwardly. As far as she can tell, Legolas' grip is the only one present on the bow. Well cared for though it is, the wood seems almost tired, though of course it will not admit just how many battles it seen. Imrel clasps her hands gently over the bow, in the same way one might give a fond handshake of farewell, then holds it out to Legolas.*

I thank you.

*Her eyes show her sincerity better than her voice.*

[Legolas Greenleaf]

*Legolas smiles, watching Imrel's reactions to his bow carefully; when she is finished, he takes back his weapon with a nod of his head, the secretive wood echoing himself even then. Placing the tip over the toe of his boot, he holds it there, watching as his hand slides slowly over the finely carved wood.*

You've learned more than you know, dear Imrel: a bow inherits the characteristics of its owner.

*With a smile, he arches a dark eyebrow.*

What, then, can you tell about me or even your father?