Angry Dagger Toss

He took his daggers from his belt. He was becoming better at this. He would throw one. A stick into the cave wall. He would throw another. Another stick. And the third. Another hit. And the fourth, and the fifth, and the sixth, and the seventh, and the eighth. And all of them would hit their marks. All of them would hit what they needed to. Well, there was a good spread. He had been able to perfect the basic idea behind this technique, but he needed accuracy. He needed finesse. He needed to perfect this.

He would take the daggers and place them back upon his belt. And though they were out of sight, they were not far from his mind as he walked out of the Trystle, he would take some provisions and move into the bygone. He had practice to be done, and he knew the perfect target that he would need for this. Rabbits. The damned things were quite small, and if he could manage not to startle them, it would provide him with a slowly moving object… or a rapidly dashing target.

The choice in rabbits was poor. He couldn’t manage to hit the damned little shits. And it only served to piss him off. Every time he missed, even when they weren’t moving, he would run at it, taking his dagger, and simply impaling the thing. He was fed up with them. And every time he retrieved the dagger, he would skin the rabbit, take what he needed, and move on. Almost without a care.

He was growing more and more apathetic about his outbursts. It was becoming closer and closer to second nature for him, and he didn’t really care about the idiotic and mindless things that were ended in the pursuits of his efforts. If a Sarradian were to see or watch his methods, they would be caught terribly off guard. And horrified more than likely at his extremely wanton killing of animals, misuse of those animals he killed, and the inefficiency that he went about it. He disliked that third point as well.

But he supposed that it was a necessity. What needed to be done. That was an odd word. Need. It implied that no other action could be taken. This wasn’t exactly true, but it was in the pursuit of a goal, and if he wanted to achieve that goal both swiftly, and, to the best of his abilities to think, effectively, then this is the need. With those constrictions, then it is indeed the need. But enough logical quandary then,  he had real work to get to doing…

And upon continuation, it would make itself apparent that he needed more practice. Far more practice, if he was going to make this skill palpable and usable in any meaning capacity. And so the daggers would fly, the glittering steel moving in the sun as it passed through the air, shifting its light over and over as it went, ultimately striking nothing and sinking into the ground with a recognizable cutting and clinking sound.

Accuracy. Finesse. Things he would have to add to his abilities as he continued his work and his different tactics. This much was certain and understood. He couldn’t just give it the fullness of his force and hope that the weapon had hit home on its intended target. He needed to practice it more…. Stabley. That wasn’t going to happen. He would need to come up with something more to his style. Less Orthodox.