Over a pint of mead, they had told me tales of the black-feathered archer; a legendary protector, killing with a deadly precision from immeasurable lengths. Men told stories of how he could pierce through the eye of a draug while standing at the top of a mountain, stories of how his arrows seemed never ending, and always true. The bard even sang a song of his heroics. 

In all truth, as I listened to the ramblings of drunken men, I hadn’t believed his existence. It was all tall tales and rumors—a story for warriors to fawn over. 

That is, until she saved my life.