A lone archer stands on a hill top. Tall and slender, his every aspect complement the trade that he has so religiously perfected. Accompanied only by a great willow, this instrument of annihilation, an emissary created in the image of a reflection in the river styx, stands poised in a position all to familiar to him. A vantage more natural than sleeping.

      To him breathing, and eating were efforts. But this, was perfection. He was at rest in his undertakings. Around him the heavens blaze, spiraling up and in as if the storm itself wished to experience the world from his eyes.

      Arrows slide through the warm gales separating soul from meat, as scores of men sank below the horizon. His eloquence shocking his attackers. Assailing onwards; no motion out of place, no exertion beyond his paragon art.

      And now, as the swords of his attackers sink into his flesh, the flesh of this artist, this tool; a wielder of such refined skills. Scores fell under him, yet his fate would eternally be the same. He was to fall in the reflection of his craft, for so long as he continued to hone his talents and produce such artistry in spite of himself, he immortalized himself as quintessentially flawed. As his pursuits ultimate artist he becomes its most powerful tool. He was no longer a masterful archer but now was archery's masterpiece.

      Perfect.

      Useless.