Deadshot Cove

The Deadshot

It was a cold. The wind howled, and the trees shook, as snow flurries blew about violently. It was deep into the night, and at the heart of a small town in the far north. Despite the storm, All was normal, until upon the stroke of midnight, a figure appeared in the town square with the wind and snow tearing at his clothing. He was eclipsed in shadow, and dimly lit by the poor glow of a nearby street lamp, but you could still make out the particulars of his appearance. He was tall, rather thin, and seemed to have silver hair, although it could have been the frozen snow. He was rather muscular with a slightly handsome face, and his clothing consisted of a dark pullover and jeans. But despite his noble appearance, he staggered and cursed as he fought through the gale. He made his way over to a stone bench located in the cities center, stood upon it and threw his head back to gaze upon the twisted whirling sky. He raised his hands in apparent displeasure and seemed to yell, but the wind snatched away his voice. Then without warning, he doubled over, clutching his side, and turned to see a golden arrow piercing his flesh. –In one side, out the other... Blood blossomed from the wound like a dark and deadly flower, and the man's body suddenly began to shudder like he could feel the cold for the first time. He he screwed up his face in rage and screamed at the heavens. But as his rage consumed him, the wind seized the opportunity to knock his legs out from under his body. And with a crash silenced by the rushing wind, the man fell. Knocking his head against the stone paved path. His cries were once again muffled by the storm and the poor soul was left to bleed in this icy hell until his death crept close enough to end his suffering.

Upon the long awaited morn, the storm had ceased and the air had been renewed, revealing the rest of the quiet, quaint, town.  All was well, and even on the stone carved bench, all trace of blood had vanished, with even the man in twine.