(Private to May)

Sam set down his bag by the long metal cylinder that protruded from the ground. There were several of these a consistent distance from each other. In between each of them was an expanse of grass that ran perpendicular to the line of cylinders. Each line was mowed well, and there were several white lines spray painted on them, each at a different distance. At the opposite end of the cylinder in the middle of the grass path was a straw wheel, painted with a target. The outer circle white, then going towards the middle, black, blue, red, and the smallest section was yellow. Some of the ranges were occupied by campers here and there, not very concentrated in subsequent ranges. They were already well on their way of practicing their archery, and, looking at the targets in front of them, varied greatly in their capabilities.

Samuel kneeled down beside his duffel and unzipped the top. Inside were about fifty arrows. Sam removed some of them, counting as he picked out each one until he got to ten. He reached up and slid them into the black cylinder, and then zipped his bag back up. The ten he removed had two blue feathers and one red one, which marked that they were only to be used for his practice. He never really used his battle ones, or top-of-the-line ones unless he needed to.

Sam stood, and slowly removed the bow from around his shoulder. Again, this was just his training bow. It was a someone simple black recurve bow, the kind typically seen in movies, the ones without the pulleys. Sam preferred this type to train with because it wasn't to hard to pull back, but still delivered some force. Sam had one other one, which was a compound, but tended not to use it.

Grabbing an arrow out of the makeshift quiver, he stepped into the middle of the grass range, and positioned himself at the furthest-back white line. The yellow dot looked disturbingly small, and Sam would have had to squint to see it. Well, he would have if he were mortal. Fortunately for this demigod, one of the traits passed down by his father gave him advanced eyesight. As he looked, his eyes began to focus in on the yellow circle, pupils becoming smaller and smaller, blocking out the rest of his normal view. Keeping his eyes and head locked unmovingly onto the target, he brought the bow up to a set position, the arrow notched onto the string. His arm outstretched, he began to pull back on the string, his muscles straining to force the back end of the arrow to his chin. He inhaled deeply, and on his exhale, his fingers loosed. The arrow whizzed forward, losing a slight bit of altitude before lodging itself squarely into the yellow space. Most people would think this a bull's-eye, but Sam with his vision could see that it was an inch to the lower left section of the circle. Not perfect. But, that's what he was practicing for.

Sam was about to notch another arrow, when he noticed that a boy joined the archery on the range next to him, and he felt himself tense up a little bit. He had chosen this one because it was one away from the person to his left, and two away from the person on his right. He had felt comfortably distanced. And now there was a person right beside his. He heard the boy mutter something, which he hoped to the gods was not directed towards him, for he couldn't make it out, and didn't really want to have to respond.

For a while, Sam busied himself with pretending he was doing something with his bow, but his eyes constantly watched the boy next to him. He wanted to gauge his decency. Before the boy even shot his arrow, Sam already had an opinion formed of him. He had noticed the boy was using a bow from the weapons shed rather than one of his own, and his form was positively atrocious, so his expectations were already very low. These expectations were only confirmed when the arrow was shot, and then stuck right into the white area of the target. A flicker of a smile began to spread over Sam's face, but it quickly disappeared when the boy across from him began to rejoice. It was very odd to him that such a bad shot would be celebrated. He figured not everyone could be held to the standards that he had, but anyone should have been able to know that the white area is a bad shot.

Shrugging, Sam turned back towards his own target, trying not to let his opinion of the boy show. He loaded an arrow onto his bow and pulled the string back taught. His eyes focused once again onto the target. He could see where he had shot his last arrow, and knew he would have to make the slightest of adjustments to the right, and then just put a little more force behind the arrow so that it wouldn't fall below a bull's-eye. Well, when he let go of the arrow, it struck the target at level with the bull's-eye, but he had over adjusted to the right. He was just off. As his eyes withdrew to take in a larger picture, it looked pretty convincingly like a bull's-eye, but he knew better.