[center][b]Vesta[/b][/center]

[i]Tink![/i]

Vesta had been at it since early in the afternoon; now the sun was setting on the castle’s courtyard. She had intended to be at it since this morning, but for some reason or another she had spent most of the hours before noon searching for her misplaced quiver. It was, of course, hanging from her belt, and before her mind drew together on what had happened she once again walked into Drosil’s shades and found herself on another quest to find her missing quiver. By the time the man was done with the courtyard Vesta was convinced that she was still drunk from last night, although according to her memory she had not had a sip of alcohol since her fight. She convinced herself it had been a blackout despite the lack of any kind of hangover.

[i]Tink![/i]

The arrow soared past the target and smacked against a stone pillar. Vesta sighed; her aim was still off, getting worse even. She flicked another arrow out of her quiver, nocked it across her bowstring, and drew it back once more. She narrowed her eyes and tried to control her breathing, counting the beats silently in her head in hopes that it would distract her from the shake in her hands. With a drink she could easily steady her nerves. Hell, after a drink or two she was a good enough shot that it had won her more than her fair share of bar bets. The only problem was that it didn’t stop with a drink or two.

[i]Tink![/i]

Another miss. Her fight with Oubera had taught her something: she was as weak as a rusted blade. She had been too soft on herself. Years ago she would have won her duel within mere seconds, now she had barely beaten her opponent. She had been letting herself go for too many years. Too many years of picking on the weak, of using her sharpened tongue in place of her dulling blade, and of blaming an injury for her incapabilities. By now all she had were her reflexes, and even those were below her standards.  She limped over to the target to pick up arrows, refusing to allow herself to use her sword as a crutch despite the flares of pain. 

Still she grimaced with each step. Vesta’s eyes lingered down to the flask on her hip. Just a little bit of burn on her lips would be enough to distract her from the pain, surely. But now that the Sentinels were gone she knew it’d also distract her from the dangerous hostel that the castle had turned itself into thanks to the Prince’s haphazard recruiting methods of grabbing anyone with uncertain motives and unnatural abilities. She had tried to warn Cyril that he was rushing down a dangerous path, yet instead of pulling back on the reigns he had spurred on faster and faster as he rushed headlong towards a sheer cliff drop  into a pit of vipers

Vesta held the arrows in her hand instead of her quiver to allow faster firing in one smooth motion as she made it back to the opposite side of the courtyard. She drew back her bow. When the person she felt less threatened by was a politician then she knew there was a problem. There were the gladiators from Gurata who had fought alongside  that demonic lady. [i]Thunk![/i] The changeling magician who consorted too much with magic and monsters for her comfort. [i]Thunk![/i] The zealous, self-proclaimed “Divine” paladin and his undying protege. When you cut a man’s throat that was supposed to be the end. [i]Thunk![/i] The fucking Gifted who had [i]Thunk![/i] been allied with the bastard who [i]Thunk![/i] had wounded Olain and pushed him  to his end. [i]Thunk![/i]

[i]Would I be able to stop even one of them if their intents proved to be ill?[/i]

Not if she kept wasting her damn time. A fine sheen of sweat was on her face as she tore her flask off of her belt and lobbed it up high in the air. Within the blink of an eye she had nocked her final arrow and fired it at the flask as it began its descent. The arrow arced just barely above the flask, losing itself in a shrub as the flask clanked, unharmed aside from a small scuff, against the ground. Clicking her tongue, Vesta turned on her heels and strolled away from the container despite knowing damn well that it’d be back on her belt, emptied, by the end of the day.