Destiny of Fire: The Normality (WotP)

Chapter 19: Abigale Newton

Firefly forest, Tuvroya
March 16, 1002

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Fwhoop. The arrow I shot got away from my bowstring, and it flew through the air before hitting the mark. It was a bullseye, specifically my first bullseye I ever scored.

I heard clapping from behind me as I turned around, my orange, pinkish-reddish hair slapping my colored skin.

I directed my watchful gaze to the person clapping, who was my father. I had splendid green eyes that reflected the glow of the sun in them as I stared up at the taller man. They weren't a perfect, beautiful, forest green color, but more of a dull green, but I still thought they looked brilliant.

My father walked up to me, smiling and saying praises such as, "congratulations!" and "I can't believe it, your first bullseye!"

My mother was the one who had the same hair as me while I inherited my eyes from my father. We both had green eyes, though his were an even duller green than my eyes somehow. My father also had short, dark brown hair, the type that attracted only the most wonderful girls, as my father would call it, and after saying that would look over to my mother, and give her a large kiss, which to me was a bit disgusting.

Either way, my father was walking up to me now, and then started listing all the flaws in my archery. "You stood in a bad position, so you wouldn't be able to turn if it was a moving target, which we'll get to later when you go hunting with me. You also took too long to aim, too long in drawing back the bowstring, and overall, you just need to shorten the amount of time you take, otherwise you'd only be hunting sleeping beasts since an alive and running beast would have scattered away by the time you actually lifted your bow to take aim at the bullseye. But, once you did actually find the correct spot to aim the bow at, that was a well-shot arrow. Now, do it again, and I'll watch. Take less time now to shoot the bow," he explained.

I nodded, and watched him back away before dragging my hands calmly over my reddish-brown wooden bow. Inscribed into it was the ancient language which was only understood by magic-users. For some odd reason, I understood it, but I never cared why, my mother or father might've had some brief experience with magic, and I just happened to inherit it from them, that was the most likely circumstance.

I looked down at my feet, and yes indeed, they were twisted and held in a weird position, so I corrected my stance, dragging my feet further apart from each other instead of one top of one another.

I lifted the bow up carefully, and drew back the bowstring, and my entire world seemed to only focus on the feather at the end of the arrow next to me, and the sharp steel at the other end, which would soon hit it's mark, and I aimed for quite some time, standing there, making sure that the arrow was definitely going to hit where I wanted it to hit, when suddenly a stick hit against my bow, and I let the arrow loose in a panic, it flying over the target and eventually striking a tree in the distance. I turned around in surprise after I watched the arrow stick itself into the bark, and saw my dad, a stick in his right hand, leaning against a great maple tree. It was obviously he who had thrown the stick.

"What was that for?" I asked, slightly annoyed.

"You took too long. If you were in a battle I could've chopped your head off a thousand times over with a battle axe during that time, and you weren't even finished aiming," my father explained, and I could hear a tinge of annoyance in his voice too, and my anger was swept away. I couldn't stay angry at my father for long, no one could, not with his nice smile and soft words, no matter how harsh the real truth he had been speaking was, but I was still slightly annoyed, but not enough that I'd give care to show that I was to my father.