The First Arrow
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The great bow sings as you pluck the string. It hums like a swallow, a sound of doom for the men feasting in your hall. You have stripped off your beggar's rags, standing revealed on the broad pavement. The suitors, over a hundred strong, are still laughing, unaware that their lives hang by a thread.
Antinous, the most arrogant of them all, lifts a golden two-handled cup to his lips. He has no thought of death. You fit a heavy bronze-tipped arrow to the string.
"The mighty contest is at an end," you announce darkly. "I will now see whether Apollo will vouchsafe it to me to hit another mark which no man has yet hit."