A young man entered the archery range. His light brown hair waved in the wind, and he had a serious cast in each of his hazel coloured eyes. He walked over to the small booth set at the entrance, stepping between the two trolls who guarded the range.

"Ah, Saethydd, my young friend," a voice, light and merry greeted him, and distinctly feminine at that.

"Oh, you know me, Sky," he replied, a smile coming across the almost brooding look that tended to dominate his face. He looked into the twin green eyes and said "Just one quiver today. An extra load at the docks, and I need the cash. This thing," he gestured nonchalantly at the battered bow held loosely in his left hand, "is getting a little too much use."

"Saeth, you really do need a new bow. Why not borrow one of mine?" she pointed over to the rack behind her, laden with bows in much worse condition than the one Saethydd was carrying.

"Sky," he laughed, "I'm quite that desperate yet."

"Well, you should come visit more often you know," she smiled, and looked him in the eyes while handing him a full quiver of arrows.

"I'm a busy, busy man, you know," Saethydd grinned widely, and waved to his friend as he turned and walked over to the range itself. Skyla's business was blooming with new people entering, ones that were rich enough to afford trainers, and those who had been saving most of the week for the chance to get out and lose some stress.

Saethydd stepped up to the line of rocks placed 50 paces from the targets. It is practical, he thought, knowing that most people were not then yet ready to be shooting much more than ten inches from the target, much less 50 paces, At least she knows her business.

Saethydd bent the frame of the bow, and placed the loop on the loose end of the wire on a small notch etched into the frame. His hand fitted about the tight leather grip that was placed in front of him, and he tested the tension of the bow, as he always did before he shot. Many a death could be attributed to the whiplike action of the twisted wire as it snapped and slashed with sharpness equal to any rekhoran blade.

"Still testing out your strings, eh Saeth?" a man's voice from behind caused him to look over his shoulder at the speaker.

"Well, when one learns things the hard way, Gretch, they tend to stay learned." Saethydd said, disappointed with the speaker.

The man laughed, leaning back slightly to show a small scar on his throat, ending mere inches from the massive neck vein.

"I said I was sorry, is that not good enough for you?" Gretch almost leered. Almost.

"Gretch, you nearly killed me!" Saethydd exclaimed. As was always the case when he remembered the accident, his neck twinged where a long, thin white scar covered his neck from the tip of the jugular down to the windpipe.