Standing a head taller than those in the nearby crowd, the breeze gently ruffling the cloth of his hood, Technus observed. His mechanical eye repeatedly clicked as he zoomed in on the archery range, the sun looming behind him to illuminate the site.

Inside the grassy field ringed by a hammered-together fence boards, the targets were dead-ahead – facing his direction so that the light of early afternoon wouldn't be in the shooter's eyes when the competition came. The sloping stands around the range were already full to bursting, with those unable to afford a seat having to stand around the edges, squeezing shoulder-to-shoulder. Still, Thalmont's law enforcement diligently managed to shepherd this gathering of organics and keep it from exploding into anarchy and disarray.

As ever, law and order – the will of Erathis – lay at the heart of all correct things. And credit where it was due, the Milisevran people seemed to take these competitions very seriously. Not that Technus could truly understand why.

Different components within a machine should not be adverse to each other, competing to see which one could perform its task best. Not unless the defunct elements were to be terminated and replaced. While he could understand the need for efficiency, these seemed to be more about showing off and indulging vanity than anything else.

If the people of Milisevre absorbed the merits of Erathis' faith as seriously as they discussed which knight was their favourite during these... distractions, then they might prove excellent followers when the Age of Iron arrived.

During his observations, Technus had overheard multiple voices discussing which knight they thought was the best at each field of combat, even before the competitions were over – which was not only perplexing, but ignorant.

The best horse rider was proven – he had seen that for himself as he observed the horse race from a distance, and so had they. And the remaining victors would be decided in time... presuming that there were no more unexpected interferences.

Behind his mask, Technus felt his laugh lines coil as the remnants of his mouth sneered involuntarily and a snort of steam blasted from his pipes. Nature always had a habit of getting in the way, obstructing where it wasn't welcome. The snakes and the snow leopard he had encountered while crossing the mountains, along with the endless beasts he'd been forced to face before that.

The Age of Iron would deal with them too. But in the meantime, sadly, the Milisevrans would have to keep their flawed eyes peeled.

As he processed his opinions on the matter, and doing well to remind himself that these weren't 'feelings', Technus did find a small glimmer of... appreciation? At it was for Finnan, of all individuals.

His skill, even if it was in a redundant and useless field of operation, was indeed impressive. If he and the others were among those who would accompany Technus on his mission, then their likelihood of success would be likely to increase.

But still, they were organics. And Finnan's reverence for nature might be a difficult variable to overcome. If he would later come to be afflicted with disgust at Technus, then so be it. It wouldn't be the first time he would have had to co-operate with those who disliked him.

Many times today, in the tail of his living eye's vision, Technus already had glimpsed many different expressions on the faces of those who looked at him, all of them negative. There were gasps, retches and even screams and cries from the younger specimens. Reflected in all their eyes - the screens that belied the worth of their soul - all he could find was horror and revulsion.

He saw those emotions on a daily basis, for they were the sentiments of those who gazed upon the future and were too weak to embrace it, as the Lectio Mechanicus said.

~~~

Quite a few things had been on Arabella's mind this morning – if Finnan had remembered to bathe, whether Technus would watch them or support them in the competitions, whether Logan would approve of her wearing the same colours as his family's heraldry. But all of that became instantly eclipsed by what Finnan had uncovered during the horse race.

She tried not to show it – least of all because it might give away to whoever was responsible that they had been discovered – but the idea that Milisevrans would cheat in a tournament dedicated to their most sacred holy site made her feel like a tectonic rift had torn through her soul. Not only was it shocking, but it was unexpected and unpredictable.

It shocked her to think that, if it was the Green Team – Milton, Anseis and Fulber, among others – that they'd be willing to resort to such dirty means purely for the sake of winning.

Were they truly seeking to go on this quest? She couldn't help but feel, based on what she knew of them, that they would not be seeking to win this tournament for any sort of wholesome reason, or for the sake of simple honour. True, she hadn't spoken to them much... but all she needed to do was look them in the eyes to know their true nature. Not to mention the way they looked at her.

She liked to think she had a good sense for those she met. Growing up in a royal court made such insight a necessity, where you had to know the difference between genuine compassion and empty courtesy at a moment's notice.

The court wizard Master Ahriman reminded her of that – he tried to come across as a charmer with his flamboyant gestures and flattering words. But the way he would glance up at the ladies in the audience between beats of the conversation immediately had him pegged for a show-off. Someone who was here to soak up the attention from his position more than anything.

But as she gazed upon him now at his place in the stands, not far from the royal box, she saw none of that. Instead, the spellcaster was glancing around nervously, right hand clutching at his upper bicep as his eyes shifted and flicked about, often peering into the distance crowd like he was searching for evidence of some kind.

'He suspects something is amiss...' Arabella wondered, remembering what had happened earlier. As the thought crossed her mind, she felt her hand rise to clasp the golden heart pendant around her neck, as it's done a thousand times before. Then, as her eyes fluttered shut, all her thoughts gave way to a silent prayer of hope.

'Lady Celanil, watch over my friends and protect all in this tournament from those who would violate the rules of honour. Even if they oppose us, may they never face harm and know the grace of your loving heart...'

Just as her eyes opened again, though, she was suddenly yanked sideways as something below her waist pulled against her. Immediately, her gaze flicked downwards and she met Finnan's big green eyes looking up at her, his hands clutching the deep blue fabric of her dress.

"Carry me!" he called, mouth pouting as he bounced up and down. "Carry me! I wanna see properly!"

The horizontally-laid boards of the fence around the archery range, while there for the good reason of stopping stray arrows, also barred Finnan from being able to see very easily. All he could do was peer through the gaps between the boards, like staring through a knight's visor.

As she realized that, Arabella couldn't keep her mouth from curling into a smile. Leaning down, she took Finnan's hands in her own and said "I can try that, Finnan. But what's the magic word?"

She arched an eyebrow slightly as she waited for his answer.

"Please," Finnan replied, glancing down for a moment as he suddenly came over all solemn and quiet. "Sorry – I forgot my words again."

Ironically enough, what he said tugged at Arabella's heartstrings. From the moment they'd met, Finnan had struggled with speech and communicating with others – after all, before her, he'd never had to talk with anyone but himself.

That wasn't healthy, and so she'd done her best to try and help him learn to talk with others, to befriend others, and to fit into society. Since she knew from experience that there'd be others out there who would look upon him unkindly. Someone who should love him most would instead ignore her-

A few images flashed before Arabella's eyes then, and she realized her thoughts had gone from Finnan to herself. To her own past... and those who had treated her ill.

Closing her eyes, she took a moment to take in a deep, full breath, which was normally all she needed to refocus her mind. And as her lungs filled with the sweet, grass-scented air and the breeze swept across her skin, Arabella remembered.

'It will all be worth it in the end... once I can restore her joy.'

Opening her eyes, she looked down at Finnan and put a smile on her face before immediately lowering down and trying to lift him. Beaming, the druid squealed with joy leapt into her arms, striking her like a stone in the chest without any warning.

Almost immediately, Arabella felt her arms burn beneath her skin, and her muscles quiver before, within seconds, they suddenly gave way and dropped Finnan back to the floor. Luckily, it was on his feet, and as a few snickers from passersby surrounded her, Arabella bent down to the halfling's level.

"I'm sorry, Finnan – you're still too heavy for me to carry," she said, her tone thick with apology.

Sadly, while her thus-far life as an adventurer had made her somewhat stronger compared to back on Evermeet, it still wasn't quite enough for her to lift Finnan and carry him. He was heavier than he looked, especially with how much he ate... or rather, how well-fed she kept him.

But, as the halfling made a low sound of disappointment, Logan smiled playfully. Then, he leant down and scooped Finnan up in his hands, hoisting him like he was a small bag of feathers and placing him up on top of the boundary fence.

"Better, champion of the race?" The paladin asked, his golden eyes and white teeth gleaming in the sun.

Finnan giggled, then rocked back and forth on the beam, making it creak as he leaned perilously backwards and called out "Whee!" in a whimsical tone. Immediately, Arabella felt her heart surge into her throat, and was unable to stop herself darting forward to place a hand upon his back.

Thankfully, she managed to calm her voice before the urge to speak claimed her:

"Please be careful, dear..." were the words that left her mouth – a far kinder alternative to the 'Finnan, no!' she felt first felt rising in her gut before she remembered her manners.

Turning to her, Finnan cocked his head. "Why? It's fun!" he declared before straining to lean backwards and swing again, only to pout and whine when his spine met the palm of her hand.

Thankfully, she was at least strong enough to do this.

"Because I don't want you to hurt yourself, sweetheart..." she told him. "You wouldn't want to have a bashed head just after winning the horse race, would you?"

As if from nowhere, Ren stepped beside her and backed her up. "She's right, Finnan. If anything, it's a miracle you didn't bang your head during said race!"

"I know!" Finnan replied, grinning from ear to ear. "Wasn't it amazing?!" He stopped trying to swing, but Arabella couldn't help but feel something coil in her gut as he stared off into the distance, his green eyes glazing over as his expression became a blank, vacant and dreamy smile.

Sometimes, Finnan worried her. She'd never snapped at him, thank the Seldarine, but it was quite hard at times to keep from feeling frustrated at his antics.

But she did her best to endure it – so that one day, he would no longer need her to look after him. The thought made her heart strain in despair, but it would have to happen. And she would not stop loving him even if they parted ways.

That time was a long way off, though. And for now, she couldn't help but try to look after him.

"Listen sweetheart - you need to-" she began, only for Finnan to cut her off by folding his arms, shoving out his bottom lip and turning to Logan, who was watching this whole thing with a look of mild amusement before doing his best to help:

"Kid, listen to your mother," he quipped. And to that, Finnan blinked and looked befuddled beyond belief.

"Arabella isn't my mum."

Logan's smile vanished. "No, Finnan... I was joking."

The exchange made Arabella lift a hand to her mouth, stifling a snicker as best she could. In truth, she didn't blame Logan for joking that Finnan was her child - to others, it might have seemed as such. But it was no matter to her.

Reaching out to stroke her little halfling's corn-yellow hair, she smiled at him before telling Logan "If you must know, Sir Logan, I think of Finnan as a little brother. But how he sees me is up to him - I love him all the same."

Finnan turned her way from his spot perched upon the barrier, and before long, Finnan's weight and earthy smell were both fixed against her as he leaned on her, as he'd done untold times before.

"D'aww..." Ren said aloud behind her, while Logan looked at herself and her 'little brother' with a fond smile. And so to indulge all parties, Arabella slid her right arm around Finnan's leaf-clad and giving him a hug. To show she was no less proud of him.

The moment was brief, but pleasant, and it became all the better when Romain returned to their side. He stood next to Logan at the edge of the barrier about the range, his eyes gazing out across the grounds.

At first, Arabella moved to greet him, only to freeze. She noticed his hands were clenched into fists as they rested on the top of the barrier, and while his mouth was smiling as he turned to look at her and Finnan, his eyes were not. Instead they seemed worn and weary, as if something had happened.

Worrisome thoughts crackled inside Arabella as she witnessed this. "Romain, are you okay?"

The Milisevran met her gaze in particular. "Oui, madame. I'm well. Why do you ask?"

"You.. you just seem a little troubled..." Arabella replied, offering him her observations. "Can I... can any of us help?"

Strange as it was, something that unsettled her above all was that Romain, a man of impeccable manners, had accidentally called her 'madame' and not 'mademoiselle'. She'd learned a few Milisevran phrases during her and Ren's shopping today, and it felt unusual for Romain to make such a mistake when he'd been the very soul of courtesy since she met him

But all she got from him was a shrug and a slightly dismissive reply of "Nothing to worry about, Arabella. I assure you," through another slightly forced smile on his pale face.

Against her will, Arabella felt her eye twitch, and she might have pressed the matter gently... if she did, in that very moment, witness the most remarkable thing.

Moving through the crowd, most of them not even coming up to the waists of the other bystanders, was a swarm of kenkus! Moving like marching ants, they wove between the legs of the surrounding humans right up to the barrier, and once they got there, they climbed up the planks to perch at the top, crouching like roosting birds.

Before long, there was a line of them on the edges of the archery range, a row of black feathers and beaks all looking in the same direction...

~~~

As Stalk strode up to the archery range's entrance, all he got were dirty looks from the members of the other teams. Just as he knew he would. Not only that, but they formed a wall with their armoured bodies between him and portcullis, moving with just too little subtlety to avoid giving away what they were trying to do.

They were trying to bar him. Keep him out of what they saw as theirs to win by right. But how he would show them otherwise...

As the rattling of chains and the creaking of gears echoed through the wooden gatehouse, he lifted his head and put on his characteristic smirk before strutting into sight of the crowds. The cheers escalated the instant the first shooter stepped outside, building to a crescendo with each knight who was announced, the royal herald trying to call out their titles and accolades over the endless din of noise.

But, as Stalk himself ventured into the light, clawed hand raised against the blinding and boiling fucker in the sky, the cheering dropped to murmurs and the herald's voice burst forth all the clearer.

"And representing the Yellow Team...Sir Stalk, hailing from parts unknown, and of no known affiliations!"

Something inside Stalked ached as he felt the eyes of the crowd upon him. Even though he knew they'd never see him as someone to love, when their revulsion was made clear, it was like the halves of a broken bone scraped and ground together inside his chest.

His smirk flickered, only held up by when what he knew to be Finnan – a mess of yellow, tan and green in his distant view – could be glimpsed waving his arms excitedly in Stalk's direction.

'Well, it's nice to know someone is cheering for me!' he remarked as a small chuckle escaped his throat.

Through the soft textures he could make out, he saw the herald in his silver surcoat step down from his platform as the introductions were made, starting to disappear back into the patchwork of untold colours that made up the crowd. A crowd that were completely still and uninterested in him.

But then...

"Wrong!" came a cawing voice, sudden as a thunderbolt. It was one that he'd heard before, and it made the entire stadium suddenly ripple with movement. Every face turned to look down the stands towards a vast expanse of black.

Then the voice came again – a female kenku's voice. "He's not from nowhere! He's Sir Stalk of the Seekers of Flight - my little brother, and a member of our flock!"

Stalk's beak dropped open there and then as he called out "Warble?!" And before he could even think, his legs sped him straight for the sidelines, the wind rushing through his feathers. As the black expanse upon the railings grew closer, the features of his family began to return to him. They were perched on the barriers around the range, soon his was swamped by familiar talons reaching out to hug and playfully grab at him.

"What the fuck are you all doing here?!" he bellowed aloud.

Immediately, something grasped his scalp and ruffled his feathers – just as they'd done a thousand times before. "What does it look like, bird brain? We're coming to cheer you on!"

That was his sister, alright. Tongue like a vorpal blade – they both got it from their mum. And just after he swatted his sister's hand away, another kenku came in close and the familiar sensation of his mother's arms upon his shoulders washed over him.

Even if he found it hard to make her out in the crowd, he knew she was there. From her feel, and the sound of her voice blending with the others as they stood at his side.

But the cheers of his family then died down, a bit too fast for his liking, and Stalk saw a horde of beaks turning in profile as if they'd noticed something. He twisted the same way, and saw exactly what he was both expecting and slightly dreading; the shapes of a tall black-haired man in armour, a shorter slim man with a sandy mop of his head, two slim figures with different shades of rich skin and light hair, and a small green-and-yellow ball of dishevelled madness.

Arabella's voice came first, light and lively as she called out "Stalk... are these who I think they are?"

The joy in her every word made Stalk glad he had feathers, for otherwise they would have seen how red his face was.

"Oh, um... guys..." he said, heart thumping inside him like a hyperactive rabbit was kicking his chest. "These are my folks, the Seekers of Flight." And then, he turned to his mother and sister before saying "Mum, Warble... these are my teammates. Logan..." he paused. "Sorry, Sir Logan Galehaut, Sir Romain de Toussaint, and Finnan..."

Finnan's last name, along with his technical status as a knight, completely slipped Stalk's memory, along with all the formalities surrounding Arabella and Ren as he introduced them too.

For a brief moment, there was silence, and a shiver ran up Stalk's spine as he wondered how some of the Seekers might react. He had no doubt they knew about him working with non-kenku... but what worried him was the more zealous members of the flock.

Those whose response to meeting a human was to draw steel instantly.

And the silence was broken just as that thought crossed his mind as one of the kenku stepped forward and dipped down, speaking in his mother's voice.

"It's a pleasure to meet you all..." she said softly.

It wasn't normal for Seekers to copy each other, and so Stalk knew in his heart it was her. And he watched as Arabella dipped down in kind while Logan, Romain and Ren all shook hands with her.

"The pleasure is ours, madameoiselle," Romain told her.

Bree replied with "Thank you, sirs. All of you. For taking Stalk into your service and giving him a chance in this tournament." The fact that she referred to him as being in Romain's service made him squirm a bit, fighting the urge to cry out "'Mum!'

But thankfully, Arabella set the record straight.

"I beg your pardon, miss, but Stalk's not in our service. If anything, myself and Ren are helping him – he's one of the knights actually competing for us.

Stalk gave her a smile. "Thanks, Treacle!" He had finally decided on his nickname for her, and tried not to sound too grateful as he called it out to her.

"It's true..." Logan then added, standing with his arms folded. Unlike the others, Stalk could see where the dark-haired paladin was looking – the bright, fiery irises of his eyes were still visible, gleaming like golden coins in the centre of his face. "He's a fine fighter, I'll give him that. And he's stuck with us this far, so credit to him there as well."

Whether he should be proud of or offended by the paladin's words, Stalk didn't have time to consider, because in that moment, two new arrivals showed up to this side of the archery range.

Namely, two pudgy, pink-cheeked guards in colourful gambesons and kettle-helms.

"Begging your pardon, sir knights, but following the snake incident earlier, competitors are restricted from colluding or conniving with their teammates. It's to prevent any further risk of the tournament being tampered with."

Stalk rolled his eyes. 'Bloody rules...' he thought before he told the pair, "Alright, fine." He hoped that would get them off his back, but when they refused to move or even take their eyes off his every move, he openly rolled his eyes and turned to the rest of his team. "Wish me luck, guys!"

Arabella inclined her head towards him, and a flash of white he took for a smile appeared on her face. "We're all with you, Stalk. Every one of us."

Her words made a pang of warmth appear in Stalk's heart, and he gave her a smile before trying to push his luck. Turning his gaze to Logan and Romain, he asked "Even you two?" and was unable to keep his beak straight as he did so.

Logan's golden eyes turned to him, the nod he gave firm but not unfriendly. "We're a team, Stalk. We're pledged to stand with each other, no matter what."

The paladin's expression was a blur, while his mannerisms were stern and just a little closed-off for comfort. Whether Logan knew that he was cheating, Stalk couldn't tell. But he trusted Romain had kept his secret...

After all, Romain wasn't like him. Romain was willing to risk victory for the sake of being trusted. And after their talk, whether that was brave or foolish was no longer something Stalk could answer so easily.

But Romain, Arabella and Finnan were all open and happy, which made the guards frog-marching back to the shooting range, acting like faceless and mindless minions from some evil empire you might find in a children's book.

Now that choice was obvious. Tolerate them versus getting disqualified? No contest.

Plus, he was glad to hear that at least something was being done to make sure there was no cheating going on. Well, no cheating beside his own.

Good to see that Ahriman fella had kept his promise.

And so, Stalk behaved like a good, upstanding citizen for once – possibly the only time – as he was escorted to his place on the firing range by the guards. His position was second from the left, between two other knights - the one from the Blue Team on his left and the one from the Green Team on his right. In front of each shooter was a large disk made of golden straw, propped up on three straight wooden legs and its frontmost surface pained with concentric rings of white, blue, yellow, and with a large red dot in the centre. The bull's eye.

Immediately, Stalk's gaze zeroed in like an assassin, as though nothing else but the highest-value spot on the target even existed. He almost didn't notice when a royal squire marched up to him and handed him a crossbow – an enormous ash monstrosity with a sharply curving arm laid across a thick, hefty stock. The entire thing had been polished so fiercely that it looked like it had come from some no-life's collection of wallhangers.

"Talk about fashion over function..." Stalk remarked as he weighed the weapon in his hands and aimed down the stock to get a feel for the sights, his tightening grip leaving claw marks in the wood. Not that he cared.

But then, his attention was drawn away by the familiar fanfare of the royal trumpets, and he turned to see the fancy-dress mascot of a herald standing atop his podium once again, his hat like a peacock's plumage.

"'Allo 'allo! The archery contest is about to begin!" he declared. "A reminder to all shooters that they shall be given five quarrels each, and the points for each shot are as follows - the white ring scores five points, the blue ring scores ten, the yellow ring scores twenty-five points, and the bull's eye offers a colossal fifty points!"

An 'oooooh' sounded across the crowd, excitement rippling across the masses like the foaming crest of a wave. And as the herald called out "Archers! To your marks!" and each shooter took their place, the mob's chanting and cheering grew awesomely loud, with flags of the remaining team's colours flitting back and forth in the hands of onlookers like strips of coloured light.

There were precious few yellow flags amongst them, but Stalk gave no wits about that. For as he turned to the ocean of black that he knew was his family, he saw so much yellow gripped in their claws that it looked like a horde of bees were buzzing over their heads. His heart swelled at the sight, and he called out without a drop of shame:

"For the flock!"

His words echoed from a thousand beaks – quite literally – as his entire family called out in reply.

Each shooter then toed the firing line, crossbows in hand as squires brought them each a case of five quarrels, each one fletched with the colour of the team they'd be fired by. Reaching for a bolt, Stalk smirked and twirled it in his fingers. The object was no more than a line before him, one end a splodge of yellow and the other a dark grey that flashed in the sunlight, but he made it dance from claw to claw like an elven bladesinger, his hand tilting and twisting with such precision that it never slowed down for even a moment.

To the rest of the world, it would have been a blur. But Stalk's whole body seemed able to move right with it, so much so that it was if the bolt were in slow motion. A smirk crossed his lips as he glanced to his other competitors, relishing the glimmers of worry that he saw in their eyes at his showing off.

Once he had his fun, though, he knocked the bolt in place on the crossbow. Just in time too, as he glimpsed a flash of light on metal in the tail of his eye, which made his heart rate surge excitedly and his head flick up.

The gleam he'd noticed was nothing other than that of the platinum crown upon King Charles' brow, mixed with the radiating light dancing off his chest through his clothing. As the king stepped to the fore of the royal viewing box – the guy seemed to have one at every single event in the tournament, go figure – he got another surge of cheers from his subjects, who seemed to adore him to the point of simpering.

Stalk couldn't tell how His Majesty felt about that. From this distance, he couldn't make out Charles' facial expression, leaving the man's face an oval of shifting autumnal skin framed by a rich golden brown beard and hair. But what Stalk did know for sure was that, between the King's position, his apparent youth despite having ruled for six damn decades, or the sheen of what many claimed to be holy light dancing off his chest, he didn't know which he found more unsettling. More daunting to stand before...

Still, if he wanted to save his people, he would have to meet the guy. By putting the rest of these preening Milisevrans in his place right in front of their monarch.

As he thought that, the shadow of a smirk flicked across his face. But almost immediately, King Charles visibly raised his hands for silence... and a tingle ran through Stalk's skin as he felt a pair of eyes he couldn't see fall upon him. It was only for a moment, but the King's gaze, his presence... it was tangible.

When there was no sound save for the gentle swirl of the breeze, Charles stated in a calm, steady voice, "Knights... you may fire when ready."

Before he'd even finished, Stalk lifted his crossbow, glimpsing movement as he assumed all his fellow competitors had done the same. Levelling the weapon with his eyes, he aimed down the sights, fixing his gaze on the target as he moved to place the tip of the arrow right over the red circle that was the bull's eye. He didn't know the kind of power these crossbows would have, so to be safe, he leant slightly backwards, index finger trembling as it hovered over the trigger...

And his whole fist squeezed as he pulled it. But then something happened so fast that not even the potion meant he could stop in time.

Suddenly, Stalk's hood was flipped backwards from his scalp with such force that it yanked his shoulders backwards and tilted his aim upwards. The shift was minute, but it tore his aim from its intended target and sent his bolt whistling in a direction he didn't know.

Not only that, but a howling suddenly filled the air all around them as the gentle summer breeze morphed into a chilling gale that blasted across the archery range from one side. His feathers all swung to the right, their plumage swiping across his skin and into one of his eyes, and a grunt escaped Stalk's beak as he lifted a hand to wipe the watering orb clean.

Through vision that was now even more impaired, he lifted his gaze, flicking it around to see tents billowing in the distance, while scattered leaves, lost kites and a few hats hurtled through the sky like a flock of mismatched birds spooked by a predator.

The rapid 'Thunk-thunk-thunk!' of a crossbow volley followed not long after, not where Stalk knew who was shooting or what at. It took him precious seconds to wipe his feathers from his eyes, and the instant his vision cleared up a bit, his gaze was fixed down the range.

The yellow quarrel of his bolt was a blob of paint smeared on the blue ring, about a foot above and to the right of the bull's eye.

"Fuck..." he whispered aloud, before turning to look behind him. Up in the stands, he saw a blue flag in the hands of a lesser herald form the first on the row that was keeping track of his team's points.

Ten.

Running his gaze along the stands, Stalk saw a few more blue flags being laid out for the other teams, along with one white flag for the Blue Team. The sight of that made his beak begin to coil into a smirk, only for the corners of his mouth to drop right down again.

There was a red flag on the row tracking the Green Team's points, and as he flicked his gaze back to the other shooter's targets, his heart sank a little further. For on the target to the right of his own, a green-feathered bolt sat smugly right in the middle of the bull's eye.

Fifty points.

A twinge ran across Stalk's eye as the Green Team's shooter held up his hand to the crowd and grinned from ear to ear, soaking up cheers and approval from the crowd like the world's most cocksure sponge.

'Lucky bastard,' Stalk thought.

He would have done the same in that guy's position, truth be told. And the fact he wasn't getting to do so made him clench his beak fiercely shut as anger bubbled through him.

The time for their next shot soon came, and as Stalk knocked his bolt into place, he glanced briefly around, then licked the tip of his index finger and held it up while straining his ears at the same time.

The wet chill that brushed against his talon was so miniscule that it didn't bear thinking about, and despite fighting to hear over the din of the crowd, he couldn't make out anything that sounded like wind. Well, except that fat noble in the back row on his left trying to sneak out a crafty one when he thought no-one could hear, but that was beside the point.

Hopefully, that gale wasn't going to come back...

Stalk knocked another arrow as the herald called for them to reload, still holding his hat as he looked to the sky. And then, as they aimed and fired, the wind kicked up again. And then died down only to rise again when they each took their third shot.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Stalk growled, beak grinding together as he muttered under his breath. It seemed like every time their order to fire came, the wind would pick up again. His three arrows were all stuck in the blue ring, and beneath his team's banner, three blue flags snapped and strained on their pennants as the wind tugged them this way and that.

And it wasn't just him. All of the teams were flagging behind, with almost all of them only having scored blue as well, hit the outer white ring, or even having no flags at all – a sign that they'd missed completely.

All of them... except the Green Team.

The archer on his right, whose name he didn't give enough fucks to remember, never fired at the same time as the rest of them. Instead, he waited, only firing after the wind died down. And it was certainly paying off, for his team had scored nothing but yellows and reds, his bull's eye now only harder to hit due to two bolts already stuck in it.

Something he couldn't explain ran through Stalk right then – it was like a small shock or tingle had shot through him and lifted a veil from his eyes. And not long after it, he felt sick to his stomach.

The wind... but that wasn't possible?

Was it?