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+--- Thread: The Sagittarius (/showthread.php?tid=8050)
The Sagittarius - Beedrill - 05-05-2026
THE SAGITTARIUS
The heat of the arena has a physical weight, smelling of parched earth and the metallic tang of expectant blood. At one end stands the Sagittarius, a taunt handsome man, he wears only the symbolic protection of his bacers and gladiator skirt. He holds a bow and three arrows have been stuck in the sand at his feet for a quick draw.
Opposite to him, a swordman crouches behind a heavy, bronze-rimmed scutum. He wears heavy, but intentionally incomplete armor, leaving visible a lot of the powerful muscles behind.
The crowd is unusually quiet. In this tense silence the voice of the arbiter, dropping the signal to start, echoed the colosseum walls.
The archer is a blur of rhythmic motion. He doesn't just shoot; he breathes in tandem with the snap of the yew wood. The first shaft is a ranging shot, whistling toward the sworndsman exposed lead knee.
Clang!
The arrow shatters in the bronze surface of the scotum.
At first, the swordsman doesn't run; he stalks. Every step is a calculated gamble to close the thirty-yard gap. He knows the rhythm of the draw. He waits for the heartbeat of silence between shots to surge forward.
The archer shifts his grip, pulling a second arrow from the sand. He aims high this time, lobbing a shot meant to force the shield up. As his opponent does that, the archer instantly fires a third, low-trajectory shot at the swordsman’s exposed belly.
Clang! Clang!
The arrows bite into the rim of the shield, shivering with spent force.
Then, the swordsman slams his shield into the back of his shoulder, using the momentum to sprint. He’s ten paces away now. He can see the archer’s frantic pulse in the hollow of his throat.
The archer reaches for his final arrow. His fingers are slick with sweat. This time he aims for the narrow gap where the swordsman’s helmeted eyes peer over the rim.
The bowstring hums like a hornet, but the swordsman is already mid-swing. The shaft grazes the crest of his helmet, shearing off a plume of horsehair.
Now the distance has vanished and the bow is no defense against a sword.
Crack!
The archer drops the useless wood, his hand darting for a small concealed dagger.
Too late! The shimmering blade of the gladius pierces deep into the archer’s torso, seemingly without resistance. An unison gasp is heard from the crowd.
The Sagittarius freezes in an almost silent scream. He stares at his killer eyes behind the helmet, failing to distinguish any emotion. Oddly, the blade feels rather cold than painful.
He did’t noticed at which moment he fell on the sand. In the heat of the day, the rising cold of death is a strange relief.
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Just a quick idea. Sorry about my english, any suggestion to improve is welcome.