A weapon "of yew or boxwood", a draw weight significantly greater than that of the modern longbow. Monstrously huge, its length of seventy inches surpassing even his own height. Had he been any other child of the current age, he knew, whose stamina and strength were not equally as terrifying, then he would never have been able to draw back the hemp string. It was truly remarkable, knowing that the medieval archers had deformed their very skeletons in order to hone their mastery of the bow. Humbling too, for one who lived in modern times.

Rhodri drew back the string of his Welsh longbow as far as he could, the ease of which he did so almost ridiculous. The strength afforded to him by his mother Rhiannon was a blessing in situations like these, for the struggles that had plagued his ancestors would never afflict him. Had they possessed his divine strength, then there would have likely been far more dead Frenchmen at Agincourt.

Hold still.

Aim.

Fire.

The arrow flew, quietly whistling through the air before it slammed into the target. Not a bullseye, but it wasn't that bad of a shot. For someone whose archery history had really consisted of whatever opportunities had been provided to him on camps, at least.

He placed the bow back on the ground and stretched out his arms. The Briton wasn't really welcoming the need for daily practice. He understood perfectly why they needed to do so, but it would be a chore. Still, no point in grumbling over spilt milk.

"[color=887744]Wonder what they're talking about?[/color]" mused Rhodri quietly to himself, allowing his eyes to lazily wander over to the group of firearm users on the other end of the range.