Personality
A brash and cocky attitude covers the youth's inexperience and uncertainty. The archer is a study in opposites -- by most accounts, an ordinary teenager who has ended up with superpowers. He has a certain confidence bordering on arrogance, yet when pressed he will admit his limitations. He is friendly, outgoing, exuberant -- the sort who lives life to its fullest. He smokes heavily, though seldom drinks, and is foul-mouthed when he thinks he can get away with it. In many ways, he is a rebellious teenager who is nonetheless heroic, adhering to a moral code of his own, and can be counted on to do the right thing -- at least in the big stuff. In the little things? He takes pride in being a total brat, enjoying a little bit of shock value.
Background
Ordinary. That would be the way Kevin, himself, would have described his life. An ordinary kid, living in the suburbs with his Mom. Kevin used his key to pop open the front door, dropped his backpack on the staircase to his left. The weight of the books removed from his shoulder, the fourteen-year-old stretched his youthful, muscular body, before he scowled at the bag. Too much homework tonight. But that can happen later, when it is dark; as autumn approaches, the evenings are growing ever shorter, leaving little time to practice his passion.
His bow was in the usual place in the garage, along with the quiver of arrows. And just like every other time he laid eyes upon them, that tiny pang resonated in his heart, the memory of his father. The father who left, mysteriously, when the boy was only nine years old. The father who taught him to shoot, growing up. As Kevin grew, his strength soon surpassed what his youth bow could deliver, and he began working his way up to the draw weight of his father's former weapon. A hand-crafted recurve bow, laminated wood, perfectly tillered; Kevin cared for it in his father's absence, as if keeping the weapon pristine for the older male's eventual return. Hoping, in that distant way that boys do, keeping the memory alive faithfully.
Leaves crunched beneath his feet, quiver slung over his shoulder, and the bow held low with his left arm. The armguard strapped to his forearm, and both gloves on his hands. The boy made his way through the woods, with just a glance at the watch on his wrist. Two hours before his mother is home -- two hours to shoot, to enjoy his pastime, to remember this memory of his father as he does two or three times a week. Just him, the target, the repetitive twang of the bowstring. In this time, in this place, nothing else mattered.
Each shot was consistent, the draw of the bow smooth, and Kevin imagined faces on the target. The cold anger deep inside him, the memory of the rejection earlier that year. He didn't fit in anywhere; not quite smart enough to be a nerd; not quite defiant or rebellious enough to be a skater punk; too scared and respectful of his mind to be a stoner. He had joined up with the jocks, working out with them, and felt a connection, felt a sense of belonging -- until that day when they turned on him, as one. Humiliating him, leaving him naked and locked out of the locker room, until he cound find help. Humiliating and mocking him, not just as a prank, but as something darker. Nastier.
Kevin took aim at the target, and sent the arrow coldly through the center of it. Channeling the anger, the boy's accuracy increased. Rebellion still burned in his heart, but his mother was strict -- and what would he do with rebellion, anyway? If only his father were here.
"Really?" Kevin asked, staring at the other boy over his lunch tray. He glanced around, half-expecting others to be staring, to watch his reaction. To see if his gullibility were being measured, judged, and of course, mocked. He lowered his voice, leaned in. "You're serious. Real tattoos?"
The other boy, dark-haired, grinned as he chewed his burger. "Yeah, man. Real tattoos. Dude's some kind of gypsy, even has a cool accent. And he doesn't care how old you are. As long as you got the money, and he doesn't charge much."
Kevin took a slow sip of his milk, just imagining that. A tattoo. A sigil, burned onto his body. Something special, something extraordinary. Something to mark himself, to make himself stand out. No other freshmen had tattoos yet, though a few had their ears pierced. Kevin found his breath quickening at the very thought of it, excitement and fear building in his stomache.
And this time, instead of heading out into those woods, instead he found himself jumping on his bicycle, quiver still on his back. He made the decision in a sudden moment, still wearing the gloves, quiver strapped on. But as he pedaled, furiously, he didn't look back; instead, his brow furrowed with steadfast determination to go through with this before he could change his mind. His first act of rebellion, his first real reckless deed.
The trip to the field did not take long -- and in the field was a tent, just as his friend had described. A simple, brightly-colored tent, a cookfire; as he parked his bike, Kevin could not help the feeling that somehow, he had traveled back in time. A horse and wagon would not have surprised him, but instead a beaten-up Ford pickup truck was parked not far from the tent, looking as if the entire vehicle were about to rust off of the frame.
For just an instant, Kevin began to have second thoughts. But before he could climb back onto his bicycle, a figure stepped out of the tent. Slender, yes, with a simple goatee; dark hair, and piercing blue eyes -- a face that might look dangerous were it not for the jaunty grin on its lips. "Welcome!" he called out, with a faint European accent. "You can call me Strider. You hear from friend about me, yes?"
Taken aback, Kevin could only swallow and nod. He did not have to speak, for Strider went on. "You hear about what I do for boys. Give them mark, make them into young men. Give them something to be proud of. What is your name, boy?" he asked, as he approached Kevin, offering his hand in a friendly manner.
Reflexively, still in shock, Kevin took the hand. "Kevin," the boy stated. "Kevin Toman. I... I want a tat." Even saying that, it came out as a small, almost-squeak. One that drew a chuckle from the gypsy.
"You have fear in your heart. Do not fear, Kevin Toman." He glanced at the quiver on the boy's shoulder, and the grin returned. "You are archer, yes? In days of old, archers were feared. Fierce, dangerous warrior. You are fierce warrior with arrows on your back. Be proud, not fearful." His grin broadened, and he looked cautiously at the boy as he opened a box on a nearby table, which contained a bewildering variety of inks, bottles, needles -- and the scent of alcohol; at least he was careful about cleanliness.
Slowly, Kevin found himself relaxing. He had not even thought as far ahead as what he wanted, but the gypsy's words about his weapon of choice -- those resonated. "I want... something with a bow," the youth began. "Something... about archery. On my back where..."
Strider laughed. "Where your mother will not see it, at least for a while. I know what you want, Kevin Toman. You want to be strong, to be brave, to be powerful. You will be all of those things once you have the confidence for it." He grinned, and add, "For you, I give you two for the price of one. A second mark... for luck..."
Three days later, the pain had finally subsided enough for Kevin to take his bow and arrows out into the forest again. The tattoo hurt, stinging nearly constantly -- more with a shirt on, and even more when he had to press weight against it. It covered a portion of his shoulder, and part of his back, a gorgeous illustration of an archer, with bow-drawn, gorgeously rendered. Kevin would stare at it in the mirror after his mother had gone to bed. The other tattoo didn't hurt as much -- a small one on his inner calf, where his socks would cover it when pulled up fully; for luck, the gypsy had said. Luck, Kevin snorted.
He stood in his spot before his target, and lifted up his father's bow, an arrow already in his hand. His hand tightened on the bow, in proper draw position -- and what happened next stunned him. With a sudden noise, his father's bow went flying off to his right to land in the bushes, and in his hand was a shimmering bow of pure energy, insubstantial -- but it felt real in his hand. And the arrow in his right hand had been replaced by a different arrow -- tougher, with its own sparkling swirls of power. Timidly, Kevin lifted up the bow and nocked the arrow, his mind numb, fingers working by reflex alone. He took aim, and released the string.
Three days later, the pain had finally subsided enough for Kevin to take his bow and arrows out into the forest again. The tattoo hurt, stinging nearly constantly -- more with a shirt on, and even more when he had to press weight against it. It covered a portion of his shoulder, and part of his back, a gorgeous illustration of an archer, with bow-drawn, gorgeously rendered. Kevin would stare at it in the mirror after his mother had gone to bed. The other tattoo didn't hurt as much -- a small one on his inner calf, where his socks would cover it when pulled up fully; for luck, the gypsy had said. Luck, Kevin snorted.
He stood in his spot before his target, and lifted up his father's bow, an arrow already in his hand. His hand tightened on the bow, in proper draw position -- and what happened next stunned him. With a sudden noise, his father's bow went flying off to his right to land in the bushes, and in his hand was a shimmering bow of pure energy, insubstantial -- but it felt real in his hand. And the arrow in his right hand had been replaced by a different arrow -- tougher, with its own sparkling swirls of power. Timidly, Kevin lifted up the bow and nocked the arrow, his mind numb, fingers working by reflex alone. He took aim, and released the string.
The string on the bow was nearly intangible, and in the daze, Kevin's mind registered that he would not need his archery glove, not with this weapon, for the release was smooth and sweet, and the arrow rocketed through the air, propelled by the force of the weapon and the energy of the bow. It struck the target with sudden power -- and instead of simply sticking to mark the spot hit, instead it punched through the rotted stump, leaving a two-inch hole in its wake, splinters of wood flying.
Shocked, Kevin opened his hand -- and stared at it. Empty, now, the bow of scintillating energy gone in an instant. He lifted his arm, held his hand just so -- and it was back. The boy stared in disbelief -- then whirled, taking off at a dead run. Running back to the field, the field where the gypsy's camp had been.
The empty field greeted him, and the boy stood there, out of breath, staring at the place where the tent had been, the fire-pit had been. Where that old truck had been parked. The pristine field that looked as though no one had been there for years.
Kevin stared at the empty field as his breathing gradually slowed. And then he whispered, to himself. "I... am in so... much... trouble!"
