The string is taut; the bow is bent; the arrow straight. The dart, it flies; the dart, it hits; the dart, it kills. The man, he falls; the blood pours out; the battle’s won.
The archer’s mind, in cold reflection, from his hidden shadows, considers the dead man collapsed upon the earth. He will not lead his troops or charge like a lion in tomorrow’s battle.
Sighing, the assassin shoulders his bow and wanders back into the depths of the forest. Men shout in anger, but the darkness of the forest is his home; the shadows will not betray him.
Tale Told 