Emberflame Ridge skill, not emotion, sends my arrow flying

     Embry's heart keeled at his success. Indeed, the moment was enough to reinspire his efforts - boosting his sluggish motions into more choreographed renditions of their former frenzy. Adrenaline coursed a heavy tympany through his inner lobes; pounding across his temples in a crusade of replenishing vigor.

     The moment was shortlived, to say the least. The youth was simply too excited, now. Never would he have allowed such slapdash performance as this: to advance without design; without a clear objective. Immediately, the field grew hazy. The once clear and fulsome stream of tactic now dribbled slowly into the final dredges of his dwindling, clouded mind. He knew of the danger he would be in if he should continue with this fruitless approach. 

     Venom evident in his oceanic orbs, the boy retreated to a safe distance from the recovering female. He proceeded to drill himself on the various methods of productive respiration.
     
     1... in. .. . 2... out...

     The fog was lifting, albeit slowly. He knew, however, that any skilled fighter would not be disheartened. He had played his best move and now was the interim in which his adversary was in the hot seat - not the other way around - and he made this distinct in his confident stride and boisterous energy.