Pansy lowers her head slowly so she's looking along the path of the crossbow, like peering through the sight of a rifle. The weapon wobbles slightly, the tip of the practice bolt dancing between Monet's chin and the top of her chest. Or, as Monet would call it: her thorax. By some miracle, Pansy manages not to roll her eyes.
Monet's maxim earns her a proper smile, but no lowering of the crossbow. Instead, Pansy repeats back a simple, "But, well," and closes her left eye.
"I went to a firing range once," she says. "Rifles." She adjusts her hands slightly, trying to get the weapon to sit perfectly still. "They taught us how important it was to lower your heart rate if you wanted to be a good shot." She takes a deep breath, then another, her heart beating faster than she'd expect. Annoyingly, this awareness does nothing to help slow it down. If anything, it intensifies, tauntingly.
"I guess I'm not cut out for it." With that, Pansy straightens and tips the weapon down. "Your lucky day."
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Pansy and Monet
Date: 2019-04-25 07:51 pm (UTC)Monet's maxim earns her a proper smile, but no lowering of the crossbow. Instead, Pansy repeats back a simple, "But, well," and closes her left eye.
"I went to a firing range once," she says. "Rifles." She adjusts her hands slightly, trying to get the weapon to sit perfectly still. "They taught us how important it was to lower your heart rate if you wanted to be a good shot." She takes a deep breath, then another, her heart beating faster than she'd expect. Annoyingly, this awareness does nothing to help slow it down. If anything, it intensifies, tauntingly.
"I guess I'm not cut out for it." With that, Pansy straightens and tips the weapon down. "Your lucky day."