Gilderond Sharpshot
Posted: Thu Feb 02, 2012 6:17 pm
Template For Character Creation Reward:
First Name: Gilderond
Last Name: Sharpshot (Vrode is his birthname)
Appearance:
Race: Human
Age: 34
Height average Human height for the world
Weight: Average human weight for the world
Eyes: Green
Hair: Dark Brown
Facial Hair Style: Scruffy goatee
Personality Profile:
General Health: Robust and spry
Deity: Mielikki
Initial Alignment: NG
Profession: Soldier - Archer originally | Scout, Ranger
Base Class & Proposed Development: Archer who is learing survival out of necessity
Habits/Hobbies: Gambling (poorly), reading, Map Making
Languages: Common, Elven, Undercommon
Weapon of Choice: Longbow/longsword
Background: (see poorly written story below)
Goals: Survival along the Coast, avoiding the clink, completing a self-made atlas of Abeir-Toril.
Possible Plot-Hook Ideas and Misc Facts: (see poorly written story below)
He and his friend had thought they would be welcomed back as heroes. After all, they had almost done the impossible to recover a priceless army mascot. It was a twisted and cruel fate both were dealt, when they arrived back at camp with their prize. The malice was only magnified when they insisted on speaking directly with the Lord Commander to proclaim their feat. It was only after being allowed to enter the Commander’s presence unarmed and surrounded by guards that they learned of the accusation that beat them to the camp.
“Hells, we had to stop to drink.” Gilderond cursed as he panted and thought back to those events.
Gilderond remembered the eyes of the Lord Commander were filled with a mixture of rage and tears, as the squire read the charges. The spittle at the sides of his mouth removed any thoughts of reprieve. Murder of the Lord Captain, and conspiracy to desert with the stolen stag were the primary charges. When the reports were read of how they had found Rigurd’s body, Gilderond felt the blood rush from his face. He turned to look at Timil in disbelief and saw his friend, now pale white, looking back with the same question in his eyes.
“Got to keep moving…” Gilderond said as he pushed himself off the tree where he had been resting, and began to run again. As he watched his feet trod forward, he kept remembering tidbits of the recent proceedings.
Timil had tried to run, and lost first his legs, then his head in a brief flash of events. Terror caused Gilderond to try the same, and it was only the distraction of Timil’s head to the grass that gave him the second he needed to make his break.
Fighting back frustration and anger… It was at that moment that Gilderond decided to run as far as he could… to the coast if necessary. He’d find no more peace in the Dales.
*SNAP!* A twig broke in the distance and Blooblofert’s mind suddenly went blank as he spun around, sling in hand, to face the direction of the noise. His other hand gripped a poorly battered and beaten buckler so tightly, that his fingers ached. Once turned, his sharp eyes easily made out a stag in the dark. It was munching on bark, and completely oblivious to his presence.
His hands relaxed, and the leather straps on the buckler squeaked with the release of tension. Blooblofert let out a quiet sigh of relief and continued on his patrol.
Maglubiyet be damned that animal had scared him to death. If it wasn’t for this blasted moon, he would be almost invisible to most human hunters. But as it was, with a full moon beating down on his bald green head, he was understandably jumpy. After all, he shouldn’t be out here alone. The others in his scout party forced him to go out by himself. If he could, he would rip out their eyes and stuff them in their…
*SNAP CRACK!* A twig broke behind him. Furious now, at the stag, Blooblofert turned and planted his long squat feet towards the direction of the sound. He was already prepared to fling a rock at the animal’s eye ball. This time however his turn was met with a short, dark green shadow of a thing not a step away. As he took in what he saw, he stumbled back, his arse now planted in the lush grass of the tree line.
In front of him, the dark green shadow rose to the height of a short man. The figure produced a long curved blade, its metal gleaming blue-white in the moonlight. The blade lifted in the air, and the figure spoke.
“You were so loud little goblin, that I could have found you blind-folded.” The figure chuckled as he moved in for the kill, his green cloak flowing in the silent wind. Caught in the open, and on the ground, Blooblofert felt panic and rage freeze his little body. The figure now spoke with a hushed whine as he neared closr to Blooblofert. “Now die, you pathetic excuse for a life!”
*THUCK!* Instantly, and from nowhere, an arrow appeared in the side of the attacker’s head. Blooblofert stared at the man, as blood began trickling down the man’s temple. Utter panic was instantly replaced by sheer joy as he…
*THUCK!*
In the middle of a particular muddy grouping of tents a group of soldiers were huddled together. They were all trying to get a glance at a card game being played by four mid-rank officers -- and a fifth, the Lord Commander’s son. Despite never having lead a campaign, the son was a high ranking captain on his own.
The game had been going for hours now, breaking once for a drinking game, and then again for a feast. Though it started as a small friendly game, stakes and wagers had been raised well beyond normal due to a mix of pride and ale. News of the rousing game and its players had spread throughout the camp, which brought a crowd of soldiers to catch a glimpse. Two final contenders for the pot were now playing the final hand. The final card, of the final hand was being laid… As it was flipped and laid on the table, groups of cheers came from the crowd, as a winner was made. Toasts to the captain and his prowess on the field and at the table went up. Amongst the cheering, a interjection could be heard.
“Balls and Bastids!” Gilderond cried, as he lost his last ruby to a short man across the make-shift card table. “You got lucky with that last card. What are odds? Four Clubs down before I even see one Spade up?” He ran his hands through his mid-length mottle-brown hair as he pondered out loud. “I swear I’ve never seen such a run of bad luck in just one hand.”
The short man across the table smirked. “Nonsense peasant.” His tone was haughty, and demeaning. “Losers should know when their beaten”. He motioned to a guard behind him who begins filling a sack with the winnings sitting on the table. “You should have quit raising when you could still afford it.”
Gilderond took his tankard off the table and looked squarely at the short man “With all due respect, Captain Rigurd.” Pausing to take his last swig of ale before continuing. “If you can’t admit that was some incredible luck, I won’t admit I over-raised. Either way, fair game and I admire your amazing card playing prowess.” The last bit said with a slight grin and a tone of sarcasm.
Gilderond stood up from the table and received pats on the back and congrats for a game well played from the soldiers around him. Rigurd, grabbing his wine glass and a green cloak slung over his chair, stood up . The look on his face was evidence that Gilderond’s comment didn’t go over well.
“You’re a fool, archer.” Rigurd sneered as he buttoned the cloak over his shoulders with one hand, gesticulating wildly with the wine glass in the other. “I should speak to my father about your bowman ranks. Ignorance shouldn’t be tolerated in my army. With my word, he’ll have half of your lot on corpse duty in a day.”
Before Rigurd could continue his rant, a messenger ran up to him and delivered a small rolled up parchment. Urgency could be seen in the messenger boy’s face.
“What? What is it now?” Rigurd whined as he snatched the roll from the boy. Reading the note quickly, and throwing it on the ground when finished, Rigurd cursed. “By the Hells, the royal stag has gotten loose!” He finished his wine in one awkward gulp and finished buttoning his cloak. “In these goblin infested woods, we’ll be lucky to find it alive now. So help me if I see a little green-skinned turd near that stag…” His voice trailed off as he walked away.
Gilderond watched as Rigurd passed out of sight. He wondered if this incident with Rigurd was over and chuckled to himself.
“What are you laughing at Sharpshot?” One of his friends, who had been watching the game since the beginning, now stared at him questioningly. Timil was a great friend and was in fact the one who coined Gilderond’s more famous monicker ‘Sharpshot’. Though Timil was a great archer by his own right, he had never had the knack Gilderond seemed to. The ability to call a shot and hit it again, and again without issue. Distance didn’t seem to matter. Hence the nick-name he had given his friend during a drunken night at the practice range.
“Nothing” Gilderond quipped as he began looking around at the dispersing crowd. “Just a fool and his money walking off to find a deer in the forest.” As Gilderond and Timil walked back to the tents, Gilderond scratched at his beard and began to think out loud.
“You know what I think Timil…I think that stag going missing is a blessing in disguise.” He began to nod as the idea came into focus.
“Huh?” Replied Timil. “What does that useless animal have to do with us?”
“Well, think of it this way” Stopping in front of his tent, Gilderond continues. “Let’s assume, and it a good assumption, that Rigurd plans to make good on his threat to put us on some nasty core duty for the duration of this campaign. There’s not much in his way right now. Hells, just a word to his father and he could make it happen. But…” At this point Gilderond seemed very excited. “If you and I were heroes of the day, he’d have an awfully hard time getting his father to condemn us to crap jobs. You know… heroes? The type of soldiers who risk life and limb to recover their precious stag? No doubt Rigurd is already out with his entourage looking for the stag as we speak. We need to beat him to the punch”
“You’re suggesting we go out there tonight, track down that blasted animal, dodge goblin ambushes and rescue the creature alive and well?” Timil looked flabbergasted as he talked. “And finally, we…what, deliver the stag to the Lord Commander himself?”
“Yeap. You ready yet?” Gilderond smirked, turned went in his tent and began packing his gear. “Meet at the North side outskirts in ten minutes.”
Almost three hours had passed since they had left the camp to look for the stag. The night was still bright with moonlight and in fact had seemed to get brighter. Gilderond and Timil had been scouring the nearby clearings looking for any sign of the stag. Their search was going cold until thirty minutes prior, when Gilderond spotted unmistakable tracks leading towards a nearby woods. Moving carefully and quietly, they followed the tracks to within 50-60 paces of the tree line.
“See anything Sharpshot?” Whispered Timil, laying on his stomach, next to Gilderond just barely peeking over a small rise in the grass. They were both facing the tree line, and while Timil was as low to the ground as he could get, Gilderond’s head was just above the grass squinting in the darkness.
“I definitely see movement.” Gilderond nods as he talks. “But I want to be sure this time!” Gilderond’s arm was still slightly sore from their last run in with what they thought was a stag, only to fight off a pile of angry badgers.
Peering intently for a while, finally nods. “Yeah, that’s the stag alright. Looks like he’s snacking on bark.” Gilderond watched as the stag finished chewing on the last bit of bark it had just pulled off a nearby tree. The stag put it’s noes in the air and sniffed a couple times before moving towards another tree.
*SNAP!* The stag stepped on a dry dead branch and the snap echoed throughout the clearing. At that same moment, Gilderond spotted another very small figure moving just at the treeline. It had stopped suddenly and seemed to turn towards the stag. Gilderond strained to get a better look in the moonlight.
“Hells.” Gilderond cursed under his breath. “Goblin.” He got lower in the grass and pointed out the moving mass along the tree line to Timil.
Timil nodded after seeing the goblin and whispered back. “Surprised we couldn’t smell him, damn he’s close!”
“No way he’s taking our glory.” Gilderond muttered quietly as he crept up to his knees in the grass, and pulled his cloak away explosing his ready bow and a quiver. “I’m taking him down.”
Timil nodded in reply and watched the goblin. “Look, he’s moving again, away from the stag.” Timil then squinted intently and saw yet another shadow moving right behind the goblin. He tugged on Gilderond’s cloak.
“Sharp. Look, two gobins!” he whispered pointing at the second shadow creeping along with the first goblin.
Gilderond squinted and nodded. “Yea, I think you’re right. They’re getting ready to ambush!” He pulled his bow up to ready and notched an arrow. With his left hand holding bow and arrow, he licked his right index finger and lifted it into the air. “Just a wind bit from the West…”
At that moment, the second shape produced a gleaming blade that shined in the moonlight like a beacon. It must have stepped on a branch, as another loud *SNAP* echoed over the plains.
“Bastids, they’re going for it.” In one swift seamless motion, Gilderond rose to his feet, straightened the bow vertical and pulled back an arrow aimed at the armed figure. Less than a second of time was spent aiming before the arrow was released. It sang across the clearing towards the tree line and it’s intended target.
*THUCK!*
The sound of an unmistakable clean shot rang out. Without hesitating Gilderond pulled a second arrow from his quiver and in the same seamless motion let that arrow fly towards the second goblin, now laying on the ground in obvious dismay.
*THUCK!*
As soon as the second arrow landed, both of the men were running quietly in the darkness towards the stag.
Within a few minutes, they had their prize in hands. Before making it back to the camp, they stopped for some time. Time to relax, and take a victory drink of wine from a skin. Each one taking turns joking about the torch lights in the distance. Hunting parties, searching for the stag they had already acquired. As groups of the torches approached near where they found the stag, shouts erupted. No doubt amazed at the double kills made with such precision and accuracy. Gilderond made sure he would include that amazing feat upon their return to the camp as heroes of the day.
First Name: Gilderond
Last Name: Sharpshot (Vrode is his birthname)
Appearance:
Race: Human
Age: 34
Height average Human height for the world
Weight: Average human weight for the world
Eyes: Green
Hair: Dark Brown
Facial Hair Style: Scruffy goatee
Personality Profile:
General Health: Robust and spry
Deity: Mielikki
Initial Alignment: NG
Profession: Soldier - Archer originally | Scout, Ranger
Base Class & Proposed Development: Archer who is learing survival out of necessity
Habits/Hobbies: Gambling (poorly), reading, Map Making
Languages: Common, Elven, Undercommon
Weapon of Choice: Longbow/longsword
Background: (see poorly written story below)
Goals: Survival along the Coast, avoiding the clink, completing a self-made atlas of Abeir-Toril.
Possible Plot-Hook Ideas and Misc Facts: (see poorly written story below)
Preface: Murderer and deserter
It had been hours since he started running -- hours or a full day? Time had flowed as a seemingly unending current. The sun was beginning to rise, but hadn’t broke the horizon just yet. Streams of orange burst through the last vestiges of purple night. Gilderond was in shape, and used to the terrain, but even this distance and pace was catching up. Moving from wooded glen to glen, avoiding clearings whenever he could, he thought that he must have traveled as far west as the Mistledale. He knew he hadn’t even started to get far enough yet. How far would be far enough? He stopped for a moment and leaned his arm against a nearby tree, resting.He and his friend had thought they would be welcomed back as heroes. After all, they had almost done the impossible to recover a priceless army mascot. It was a twisted and cruel fate both were dealt, when they arrived back at camp with their prize. The malice was only magnified when they insisted on speaking directly with the Lord Commander to proclaim their feat. It was only after being allowed to enter the Commander’s presence unarmed and surrounded by guards that they learned of the accusation that beat them to the camp.
“Hells, we had to stop to drink.” Gilderond cursed as he panted and thought back to those events.
Gilderond remembered the eyes of the Lord Commander were filled with a mixture of rage and tears, as the squire read the charges. The spittle at the sides of his mouth removed any thoughts of reprieve. Murder of the Lord Captain, and conspiracy to desert with the stolen stag were the primary charges. When the reports were read of how they had found Rigurd’s body, Gilderond felt the blood rush from his face. He turned to look at Timil in disbelief and saw his friend, now pale white, looking back with the same question in his eyes.
“Got to keep moving…” Gilderond said as he pushed himself off the tree where he had been resting, and began to run again. As he watched his feet trod forward, he kept remembering tidbits of the recent proceedings.
Timil had tried to run, and lost first his legs, then his head in a brief flash of events. Terror caused Gilderond to try the same, and it was only the distraction of Timil’s head to the grass that gave him the second he needed to make his break.
Fighting back frustration and anger… It was at that moment that Gilderond decided to run as far as he could… to the coast if necessary. He’d find no more peace in the Dales.
Part 1. Blooblofert’s Night
Blooblofert tottered along his patrol. The moon was out tonight, and it was particularly bright, which he hated. Even more, he hated being exposed, trudging along the tree line scouting for tall men. It certainly wasn’t his idea. He wasn’t fast, smart, or strong enough to get out of doing it. If he had his way, he’d skin the other members of the scout party alive and dance on their bloodied carcasses. They had forced him to go out alone while they sat in a hole and schemed against the chieftain. If he could, he would rip out their…*SNAP!* A twig broke in the distance and Blooblofert’s mind suddenly went blank as he spun around, sling in hand, to face the direction of the noise. His other hand gripped a poorly battered and beaten buckler so tightly, that his fingers ached. Once turned, his sharp eyes easily made out a stag in the dark. It was munching on bark, and completely oblivious to his presence.
His hands relaxed, and the leather straps on the buckler squeaked with the release of tension. Blooblofert let out a quiet sigh of relief and continued on his patrol.
Maglubiyet be damned that animal had scared him to death. If it wasn’t for this blasted moon, he would be almost invisible to most human hunters. But as it was, with a full moon beating down on his bald green head, he was understandably jumpy. After all, he shouldn’t be out here alone. The others in his scout party forced him to go out by himself. If he could, he would rip out their eyes and stuff them in their…
*SNAP CRACK!* A twig broke behind him. Furious now, at the stag, Blooblofert turned and planted his long squat feet towards the direction of the sound. He was already prepared to fling a rock at the animal’s eye ball. This time however his turn was met with a short, dark green shadow of a thing not a step away. As he took in what he saw, he stumbled back, his arse now planted in the lush grass of the tree line.
In front of him, the dark green shadow rose to the height of a short man. The figure produced a long curved blade, its metal gleaming blue-white in the moonlight. The blade lifted in the air, and the figure spoke.
“You were so loud little goblin, that I could have found you blind-folded.” The figure chuckled as he moved in for the kill, his green cloak flowing in the silent wind. Caught in the open, and on the ground, Blooblofert felt panic and rage freeze his little body. The figure now spoke with a hushed whine as he neared closr to Blooblofert. “Now die, you pathetic excuse for a life!”
*THUCK!* Instantly, and from nowhere, an arrow appeared in the side of the attacker’s head. Blooblofert stared at the man, as blood began trickling down the man’s temple. Utter panic was instantly replaced by sheer joy as he…
*THUCK!*
Part 2. Hunting Spades
In clearing within the Battledale, a one thousand strong Archendale army camp was fully setup for the evening. Neat lines and columns of dark green tents were lit by numerous campfires and braziers, and the smell of freshly cooked venison was in the air. The moon was out tonight, and it was particularly bright, which suited the men of the camp just fine. Sounds of laughter, song, and chatter could be heard throughout the clearing. It was obvious this was a camp filled with recently victorious soldiers.In the middle of a particular muddy grouping of tents a group of soldiers were huddled together. They were all trying to get a glance at a card game being played by four mid-rank officers -- and a fifth, the Lord Commander’s son. Despite never having lead a campaign, the son was a high ranking captain on his own.
The game had been going for hours now, breaking once for a drinking game, and then again for a feast. Though it started as a small friendly game, stakes and wagers had been raised well beyond normal due to a mix of pride and ale. News of the rousing game and its players had spread throughout the camp, which brought a crowd of soldiers to catch a glimpse. Two final contenders for the pot were now playing the final hand. The final card, of the final hand was being laid… As it was flipped and laid on the table, groups of cheers came from the crowd, as a winner was made. Toasts to the captain and his prowess on the field and at the table went up. Amongst the cheering, a interjection could be heard.
“Balls and Bastids!” Gilderond cried, as he lost his last ruby to a short man across the make-shift card table. “You got lucky with that last card. What are odds? Four Clubs down before I even see one Spade up?” He ran his hands through his mid-length mottle-brown hair as he pondered out loud. “I swear I’ve never seen such a run of bad luck in just one hand.”
The short man across the table smirked. “Nonsense peasant.” His tone was haughty, and demeaning. “Losers should know when their beaten”. He motioned to a guard behind him who begins filling a sack with the winnings sitting on the table. “You should have quit raising when you could still afford it.”
Gilderond took his tankard off the table and looked squarely at the short man “With all due respect, Captain Rigurd.” Pausing to take his last swig of ale before continuing. “If you can’t admit that was some incredible luck, I won’t admit I over-raised. Either way, fair game and I admire your amazing card playing prowess.” The last bit said with a slight grin and a tone of sarcasm.
Gilderond stood up from the table and received pats on the back and congrats for a game well played from the soldiers around him. Rigurd, grabbing his wine glass and a green cloak slung over his chair, stood up . The look on his face was evidence that Gilderond’s comment didn’t go over well.
“You’re a fool, archer.” Rigurd sneered as he buttoned the cloak over his shoulders with one hand, gesticulating wildly with the wine glass in the other. “I should speak to my father about your bowman ranks. Ignorance shouldn’t be tolerated in my army. With my word, he’ll have half of your lot on corpse duty in a day.”
Before Rigurd could continue his rant, a messenger ran up to him and delivered a small rolled up parchment. Urgency could be seen in the messenger boy’s face.
“What? What is it now?” Rigurd whined as he snatched the roll from the boy. Reading the note quickly, and throwing it on the ground when finished, Rigurd cursed. “By the Hells, the royal stag has gotten loose!” He finished his wine in one awkward gulp and finished buttoning his cloak. “In these goblin infested woods, we’ll be lucky to find it alive now. So help me if I see a little green-skinned turd near that stag…” His voice trailed off as he walked away.
Gilderond watched as Rigurd passed out of sight. He wondered if this incident with Rigurd was over and chuckled to himself.
“What are you laughing at Sharpshot?” One of his friends, who had been watching the game since the beginning, now stared at him questioningly. Timil was a great friend and was in fact the one who coined Gilderond’s more famous monicker ‘Sharpshot’. Though Timil was a great archer by his own right, he had never had the knack Gilderond seemed to. The ability to call a shot and hit it again, and again without issue. Distance didn’t seem to matter. Hence the nick-name he had given his friend during a drunken night at the practice range.
“Nothing” Gilderond quipped as he began looking around at the dispersing crowd. “Just a fool and his money walking off to find a deer in the forest.” As Gilderond and Timil walked back to the tents, Gilderond scratched at his beard and began to think out loud.
“You know what I think Timil…I think that stag going missing is a blessing in disguise.” He began to nod as the idea came into focus.
“Huh?” Replied Timil. “What does that useless animal have to do with us?”
“Well, think of it this way” Stopping in front of his tent, Gilderond continues. “Let’s assume, and it a good assumption, that Rigurd plans to make good on his threat to put us on some nasty core duty for the duration of this campaign. There’s not much in his way right now. Hells, just a word to his father and he could make it happen. But…” At this point Gilderond seemed very excited. “If you and I were heroes of the day, he’d have an awfully hard time getting his father to condemn us to crap jobs. You know… heroes? The type of soldiers who risk life and limb to recover their precious stag? No doubt Rigurd is already out with his entourage looking for the stag as we speak. We need to beat him to the punch”
“You’re suggesting we go out there tonight, track down that blasted animal, dodge goblin ambushes and rescue the creature alive and well?” Timil looked flabbergasted as he talked. “And finally, we…what, deliver the stag to the Lord Commander himself?”
“Yeap. You ready yet?” Gilderond smirked, turned went in his tent and began packing his gear. “Meet at the North side outskirts in ten minutes.”
Part 3. Bag the Stag
Almost three hours had passed since they had left the camp to look for the stag. The night was still bright with moonlight and in fact had seemed to get brighter. Gilderond and Timil had been scouring the nearby clearings looking for any sign of the stag. Their search was going cold until thirty minutes prior, when Gilderond spotted unmistakable tracks leading towards a nearby woods. Moving carefully and quietly, they followed the tracks to within 50-60 paces of the tree line.
“See anything Sharpshot?” Whispered Timil, laying on his stomach, next to Gilderond just barely peeking over a small rise in the grass. They were both facing the tree line, and while Timil was as low to the ground as he could get, Gilderond’s head was just above the grass squinting in the darkness.
“I definitely see movement.” Gilderond nods as he talks. “But I want to be sure this time!” Gilderond’s arm was still slightly sore from their last run in with what they thought was a stag, only to fight off a pile of angry badgers.
Peering intently for a while, finally nods. “Yeah, that’s the stag alright. Looks like he’s snacking on bark.” Gilderond watched as the stag finished chewing on the last bit of bark it had just pulled off a nearby tree. The stag put it’s noes in the air and sniffed a couple times before moving towards another tree.
*SNAP!* The stag stepped on a dry dead branch and the snap echoed throughout the clearing. At that same moment, Gilderond spotted another very small figure moving just at the treeline. It had stopped suddenly and seemed to turn towards the stag. Gilderond strained to get a better look in the moonlight.
“Hells.” Gilderond cursed under his breath. “Goblin.” He got lower in the grass and pointed out the moving mass along the tree line to Timil.
Timil nodded after seeing the goblin and whispered back. “Surprised we couldn’t smell him, damn he’s close!”
“No way he’s taking our glory.” Gilderond muttered quietly as he crept up to his knees in the grass, and pulled his cloak away explosing his ready bow and a quiver. “I’m taking him down.”
Timil nodded in reply and watched the goblin. “Look, he’s moving again, away from the stag.” Timil then squinted intently and saw yet another shadow moving right behind the goblin. He tugged on Gilderond’s cloak.
“Sharp. Look, two gobins!” he whispered pointing at the second shadow creeping along with the first goblin.
Gilderond squinted and nodded. “Yea, I think you’re right. They’re getting ready to ambush!” He pulled his bow up to ready and notched an arrow. With his left hand holding bow and arrow, he licked his right index finger and lifted it into the air. “Just a wind bit from the West…”
At that moment, the second shape produced a gleaming blade that shined in the moonlight like a beacon. It must have stepped on a branch, as another loud *SNAP* echoed over the plains.
“Bastids, they’re going for it.” In one swift seamless motion, Gilderond rose to his feet, straightened the bow vertical and pulled back an arrow aimed at the armed figure. Less than a second of time was spent aiming before the arrow was released. It sang across the clearing towards the tree line and it’s intended target.
*THUCK!*
The sound of an unmistakable clean shot rang out. Without hesitating Gilderond pulled a second arrow from his quiver and in the same seamless motion let that arrow fly towards the second goblin, now laying on the ground in obvious dismay.
*THUCK!*
As soon as the second arrow landed, both of the men were running quietly in the darkness towards the stag.
Within a few minutes, they had their prize in hands. Before making it back to the camp, they stopped for some time. Time to relax, and take a victory drink of wine from a skin. Each one taking turns joking about the torch lights in the distance. Hunting parties, searching for the stag they had already acquired. As groups of the torches approached near where they found the stag, shouts erupted. No doubt amazed at the double kills made with such precision and accuracy. Gilderond made sure he would include that amazing feat upon their return to the camp as heroes of the day.