Control
The crack of the rifle split the air—before the echo faded, the target crumpled, their expression frozen in shock. Across the field, a rival mercenary spun toward the sound, eyes narrowing as they traced the bullet’s path back to the shooter’s perch. Dust stirred where the sniper had lain moments earlier; a faint scuffmark on the rooftop ledge betrayed their retreat. The hunt was already moving, instincts and precision colliding in a lethal dance.
description
You’ve heard the tales—whispers of elves nocking arrows with uncanny grace, their bows singing death from impossible distances. Legends aren’t wrong. Their weapons are masterworks: slender curves carved from ancient heartwood, strings humming with magic older than mortal kingdoms. An elven archer doesn’t just *shoot*. They dance. A blur of motion, a storm of arrows—each finding its mark, heart after heart, faster than a breath. Skeptics? Good. Step into the glade. Test your reflexes against their phantom volleys, prove your aim against winds that bend to elven will. But be warned: those strings don’t miss. Not unless they choose to.
