Valentine let out his breath, slowly, at measure. As smooth as stillwater, he released the bowstring.

[i]Thwap![/i]

The arrow shot through the air, only a slight whistle and a moment's flight marking its freedom from gravity, the ground, the bow, the quiver. Only for a moment, could he see it- and then it slammed into the deer's chest, smacking through the buck's side and into its heart, just above its foreleg. It took a step, nearly leaping out of danger, stumbling, as the arrow sprouted from its side. Another shaky step, and then its back legs wobbled and collapsed, the rest of it following just afterwards.

Valentine grinned, and rose from his crouch. He had been wandering the forest, silently, waiting to come across game. Two rabbits were already slung over his shoulder; the deer would top it off nicely. Running over, still in a half-crouch, he placed his hand against the slightly bloody entry wound, feeling the arrow rub against the skin between his index finger and thumb. His other hand curled around the arrow, and... slid it free, straight and clean.

He inspected it, critically, finding it to be bloody, but undamaged. Better yet, not [i]one[/i] of his thirteen arrows had been damaged, lost, or bent thus far. Some people eyed his thirteen arrows with distrust, with superstition- but it brought him nothing but luck, it seemed.

He inspected the size of deer, just as critical as he had been with his arrow. A decent-sized mule deer, still young, and with maybe... seven points? A decent catch indeed. Grabbing it, one hand at the top of the forelegs' hooves, one hand at the top of the hind legs' hooves, he hefted it, slinging it over his shoulders, the length of its body resting against the width of his middle back.

And with that, he straightened, and trudged off, heading home.

~ ~ ~

Maybe a couple hours later, he arrived at the outskirts of town. Town is general, of course- the city of somenameortheother was quite a bit larger than most of the largest cities in the nation, absolutely none of which he knew the names of. As far as he was concerned, he didn't need to know the names of anything- he just needed to know how to hunt.

His house- one he shared with his sister, and one that he would've shared with his parents, if he knew them- was near, just inside the city walls, in one of the poorer districts. Thankfully, the not-so-upstanding-and-honorable guards accepted the bribe of thirteen copper coin, to let him in through a small, secret 'gate' in one of the less cared for sections of the wall, where someone had dug their way out, and it had become a tunnel guarded by soldiers, who accepted bribes to not throw the trespassers in jail. 

A couple of the more predatory younger guys in the area eyed him, judging whether or not the risk versus gain- go against Valentine, and come out with a deer, or come out cut up. Based on how nonthreatening the guy was, Valentine figured that the predator had figured him to be too big a fish to eat and come out ahead. 

Three minutes later, he was on the doorstep of The Boarshead Inn. Instead of going inside, however, he went around back, where he passed on the deer to his father, who had noticed him through the windows and was waiting outside for him. He took care of the deer; he had paid his time for the evening.

Time for some fun... and prove that old drunk that Valentine wasn't afraid to try and be in the Choosing.

~ ~ ~

He drew his arm along his face, wiping the blood from his nose. He eyed the trainer in front of him murderously- the man, in return, grinned cheekily, and asked, "Whatcha gonna do, boi? Stand der all dey and waste me time?" His accent was thick, but oddly lilting and singsong, foreign but not entirely unpleasant.

"Naw, ye old drunk. I'ma just bash yer face in wityer own sword."

Reply launched, Valentine darted forward, feinting, before throwing himself to the side and rolling. The man had stabbed, just as he expected him to- the man stabbed, slashed, and then kicked. So, Valentine kicked out as he was rolling, connecting with the man's knee and forcing him back, snapping the joint back painfully so. He cursed, and here came that slash. 

He brought up his knife, swinging at the wooden sword, connecting. But he didn't just try to block the slash and hold- no, he continued moving his knife, relying on its hilt to throw the sword over his head, missing entirely. Here came that kick- but again, he moved too late. It smashed into his face, knocking him to the side and snapping his head away from him. Feebly, he threw the knife in his other hand at the trained- it didn't land so well, the crossguard hitting first, and then the 'blade,' but it was enough to surprise the trainer.

He didn't move fast enough, though. He felt the sword's wooden point graze his back as he rolled to the side again. Dashing to his feet as he came out of the roll, he turned back to the trainer, his left eye swollen and hindering his eyesight. Naturally, the swordsman trainer took advantage of it, going on the offensive. He jumped forward, again stabbing at his left side. He spun, the stab again just barely grazing his side as he moved, before he had closed the distance, 'spinning' around his blade and using his new close quarters to bring up his knife. 

His knife grazed the man's chest, as he stumbled back to regain the sword's reach advantage, and he surprised Valentine with a knee. It struck his crotch rather forcefully, sending the air out of his lungs as he suddenly struggled with the unbearable pain in his manhood. Dropping to his knees, he gasped, unable to get a breath around the pain pulsing from his lower torso.

He vaguely noted the trainer getting some distance, stepping away and wiping at the sweat at his brow. He dropped his sword, and stepped forward, waiting for maybe half a minute as Valentine regained himself. He reached down with a hand, and Valentine took it, swaying as he tried to steady himself and not fall over.

"Ye fought well, mate. I think ye passed, thuh ye'd prolly bled out buh now. Kudos to ye, hunter. Head up yonder."

The man switched out with someone else, and Valentine held his stomach, suddenly overcome with the urge to gag. After maybe two minutes, and the new trainer's hand on his shoulder and him babbling about how good the fight was and how he could've done this or that better, he straightened, pain dulling.

He straightened his shoulders, and maybe a dozen or two people whooped and hollered as they saw him recover, giving him a cheer for his good work.

Satisfied with his handiwork, though certainly looking forward to kicking that trainer's manhood himself, he turned, laying a hand on both of the two large knives, which were more akin to shortswords, that hung on both his hips. He mounted the stage, up to the other three or four others successful candidates, and stood proudly up there.

Then he realized that he had been considered good enough. He's got a chance at being Chosen.

Which means that he'd be leaving. For quite some time, really. Why was he here? Did he really want to be Chosen? But he couldn't possibly have any magic in him. The thought left him both disappointed and relieved, for some reason.