swiftarrow

тнe υɴғrιeɴdly woodѕ ;
swift–arrow:

There was something here, something that his eyes could not see, something his ears could not hear. But it was there, he could feel it deep in his stomach. Slowly he reached backwards, picking up an arrow with delicate fingers before he drew his bow. Sliding the arrow in place, his eyes darted around the unfamiliar landscape, ears attempting to pick up every cracked twig, every falling leaf. “Show yourself!” He called out, voice sharp as his fingers gripped the arrow tight, the string already in place. “The faster you show yourself, the less reason I have to use my weapon!”

         Oh, how she had tried to remain quiet. Susan did not know if she was faced with friend or foe in these unfamiliar woodlands: it had been years since her last visit to the enchanted land of her childhood, but something told her that she was not in Narnia. It was evident that she wasn’t in Finchley, either. She swore inwardly [ much to her own disdain ] as a voice reverberated against the moss-coated trees. “I doubt that threatening someone is a sure way to earn their trust,” she called out from behind a tree trunk.

          The rock in her hand was still in place, in case she needed to use such a weapon. As she stood out from behind the tree: she was disappointed to see the familiar curve of a bow in his hand – she would have no chance with her ruddy rock. “You wouldn’t shoot a lost, defenceless woman – would you?” Her brows raised in a knowing fashion: she could talk her way out of this sticky situation, perhaps?