THE WISE ARCHER

The archer…

Licked the tip of his finger.

He reached over his head and pulled a single arrow from his quiver. 

The feather that had been used to finish the end of the arrow felt delicate to the touch. The archer was so tuned in, so wired into what he was feeling that he could sense every intricacy of texture. He wasn’t your average archer. He wasn’t even a master because he had transcended mastery. This man was a God of archery and little did he know…

He had an admirer.