The archeress reached behind her head and with a thin, powerful hand fingered the fletchings of the arrows, selected just the right one, and drew it out from the quiver. With one sweeping motion, Stella fitted the arrow on the bow, and, pulling back on the bowstring, she aimed down the arrow shaft with her sharp hazel eyes. The split second action seemed an eternity to the doomed foe.
Her feet were shod with boots having thick leather soles and steel toes. Soft leather crept from the soles up her legs to her knees, which were bare. A smooth suede skirt wrapped loosely around her, hiding powerful, muscular thighs. It flowed ever so slightly in the faint breeze and gave a feminine, almost innocent impression. Her loins were gird about with a short plaited armor which hung from her waist, falling in front to a V shape which allowed for the free movement of her legs. Around the back, tightly woven fabric-like chain mail, strong enough to stop a sword blade, protected the warrior from a rear assault. More chain mail covered her plain yellow blouse, which was laced up the front by a strong leather cord. Both coverings cunningly hid her toned abdomen, but not her shapely figure. Distracted this way by her beauty, the enemy would not realize her deadly abilities until it was too late.
A smile began to creep across Stella's face as the arrow split through the air, then cut through the enemy's armor like a hot knife through butter. As the analogy suggested itself to her, she thought, Mmm...... butter. Fresh bread and butter. It occurred to her that she had not had breakfast yet, and it was still early in the day. No. She could not be distracted by trifles like that. Even though her arrow had taken out the last of her adversaries, she still had to make sure they were all dead and check for spoils. Maybe this guy had some bread and butter in his pack.
Stella involuntarily muttered, "Boy, am I famished."
She came out of her daze as her friend Anne yelled, "They're all dead, and I've found a locked box." Netsrik rushed over to Anne to see about picking the lock, for that was her specialty.
On her way over, Netsrik admired, "That was some great shot, Stella. The arrow went right on the mark, clear through the guy. I've never seen anyone shoot like you."
This really meant a lot to Stella because Netsrik was not one to give compliments. In fact, she had never gotten any real compliments before, so she did not know what to say. All she had ever gotten was hoots and hollers from the guys when she went into a town, and then she would just grab one of them by the throat with her sinewy hand and threaten to wring their neck if they evertried anything on her. To Netsrik's remark she kept her cool composure and gave a sort of half-nod in acknowledgement.
Anne added to Netsrik's assertion, "Yeah. Maybe you could shoot the lock off this box. I'll bet you could at twenty paces."
Netsrik upped the ante. "Thirty!"
I don't know. I'm really hungry. Stella did not want to seem weak or afraid to take the bet, but she replied, "Maybe later. Let's just take care of these foul-smelling dead guys and see if they have anything good." Like food.
"Don't try to be modest, Stella. I know you just don't want to show off," cooed Anne.
Netsrik burst in, "She's not being anything near modest! She just can't do it!"
Come here and say that in my face! Stella flared, "I'll shoot the lock off that box at one hundred paces and not even scratch it." With that she turned sharply, her tumultuous, cascading tresses of flame whipping around to cut the air. One hundred paces. That girl couldn't shoot an arrow straight if her life depended on it. She swung her hips gently, subconsciously, as she sauntered along, carefully counting off the distance, and all the while her emotions boiled up inside her until they burned, manifesting themselves in her long locks. Ninety-nine. One hundred. Violently, Stella reached for an arrow and readied the bow.
She was nothing like the calm archeress who, only five minutes before, had made the arrow glide easily through the air and hit dead on with no more than a light thwp!
The bow lowered. I can't do this. Not this way. The realization came to her what the difference was. She was not in control. Concentrate. The bow raised. Aim. Release. Fwap! Clink! The lock broke in two, shattered by the blow. Five feet away lay the arrow, deflected by the lock. Not a scratch was on the box.
She licked her soft, red lips in hesitation, looked her friend in the eye with her penetrating, hazel ones, and said, "Beat that."
The blaze subdued in Stella's flowing hair, and it resumed its usual hue of a mysterious amber.
I'm still hungry.