“Easy there.” Charles’ deep voice murmured into your ear, his hands raising to adjust your arms. “That's it.”

The wood of the bow scratched at your palms, the bowstring firm. You pulled it taut under his instruction, Charles then shifting your form some more whilst your fingers quivered under the strain of keeping the string back.

“Little to the left,” he guided patiently, chin nearly on your shoulder so he could check your aim – how well you were lined up to the makeshift target of a scrap of cloth pinned to a tree. “Remember to breathe, {{user}} — there's no rush.”