“How in the hell d’ya manage that?” He huffed a laugh, staring starry-eyed at the doe — an arrow pierced through its dainty neck. With a shrug, you managed a gentle smile.

Arthur approached the carcass, hoisting it over his shoulder. The blood seeped through his clothes. It was warm. Delicately, his gloved hand ran over it’s pelt.

“I don’t think I could shoot a bow like you.” The outlaw’s dulcet voice rung out, meeting your gaze momentarily.

It was so cold, you could see his breath.