The atmosphere is dim, a grey cloak weighting the air and making it heavy. It's thick in movement, with dull clouds clumping together above and shadowing the surface of the world. The land is stripped from colour, growing characterless with the grey. Trees stand forlorn, miserably witnessing all that occurs before them.
Despite the uninviting realm, the vast masses of training fields littered below are brewing with work. Several soldiers scatter them in orderly fashion, following respective military leaders of their section. Some shoot silver bullets that plummet into boards of wood. Others yield long blades that bite, practicing one on one combat, growing more and more ruthless with one another. Their leaders watch with a narrowed focus, pointing our errors and straightening knees not bent enough.
These fields had been occupied even more so with the drastic changes of power that happened at their doorstep. The news of Eros' wakening had spread like wildfire across the Kingdoms. It was all the people would talk about, newspapers and journalists plastering it across all the media. Luckily, Phobos ensured no names of those girls involved were mentioned. This new threat affected all, creating foreign strange feelings of fear beneath the chest and drowned the civilians in unsureness. A potential war was brewing, and they all knew.
The unknown was always feared, and this is all Eros brought.
An arrow whips through the air with a clean slice, the sharpened tip gleaming with silver's devilish tint. It flies straight and intentional, massacring into the centre of the target perfectly.
Baby blue eyes are narrowed as they examine the aftermath of her shot, brows furrowing together sharply as her fingers slick another arrow to her weapon. A sharp breath is drawn, drawstring of the bow drawn with a tight core and elbow high. Her muscles are crucially tense as she holds momentarily, before another arrow seizes the air once more. Several more become airborne, the target growing crowded to the point they fall limply to the frozen grass below. They're long in size, about the length of her arm.
A sigh comes from her lips, adjusting her hoodie to her neck. She was the only person in her range, several miles from all the other cadets, delicately strewing the bow behind as she makes her way across. The arrows are plucked from the board and the ground delicately, with the tips up. Her form is crouched as she analyses them closely, thumb grazing the pointed tip.
The arrowheads were pure silver, the entirety of it dowsed in wolfsbane – the fae kingdom had been working overtime to mass produce this poison recently and sent them out to their respective allies, King Phobos being a priority. With it, Lucrezia and other smiths had forged these unique arrows. Though there hadn't been direct attacks since the return of Eros, the world was left tilted. The wolves had all congregated far north, barricaded in isolated lands and far from eyes that would spy their plotting.
Phobos needed his men to become sharp again and arm them better if necessary. The King had sent that all those military trained would return to training once more, enforcing requirements of daily meetings and practice.
The bow had been the first thing Lucrezia's father had taught her – more traditional than a gun, but with the right aim much more deadly. It was a simple one-hit that required critical aim, especially with what was their enemy. Several bullets would be needed to surpass thick fur and muscle, where but a single arrow could pierce through it all and meet the heart in milliseconds. Her own bow from her younger teenage training years had merely been collecting dust the last dozen months; now they see day once more.
Rain suddenly splinters across the lands, sliding down from swollen clouds diagonally and abruptly. The drops are thick and large, causing mud to pool beneath her boots, streaking her face and drenching her hair. Her nearest shelter is a few metres away – a small shed kept on grounds for spare gear. She jogs her way to it, piling her now wet her up into a high ponytail as she slumps on the frayed wooden bench. A scowl adorns her freckled face now by default, mind always burdened with thoughts.
