*is in the back garden with his long silver sword in almost a poetic dance, the sword intricate with elven design and ancient runes, as old as time it'self adoring the blade. The hilt made from the finest material, wrapped in delicate, yet firm dragonhide leather. Holding this sword is Araavos, sweat gleaming of his chest like a fresh mist on a cool winter morning. His muscles flexing with every swing, stomach tightening with every twist. His hair long and flowing off the shoulder. He sets the sword down a moment and summons his bow, Muscles tightening as he draws aim at the target. He knocks and then fires a celestial arrow right through the center before knocking another arrow and splitting the first. He then returns to his dance with his sword.*