Sound
bedroom pop music, falsetto high notes
Model
FUZZ-1.1
Lyrics
"Arrow and Wind"
A Fragment from Thassaland
She stood at the edge of the jungle.
The ground beneath her feet was soft, dark from the rain of the night.
Moisture hung in the air like an old memory.
She raised the bow. No hesitation. No movement wasted.
Her fingers rested calmly on the string, the arrow already drawn.
The wind played in the leaves, but she did not listen to the rustling.
She listened to the space between –
between movement and stillness, between aim and intent.
"The wind is not an enemy," the old one once said.
"He is a test. He asks whether you are ready not to force – but to yield."
The arrow lay in her hand like a thought, waiting to become true.
No anger guided it. No hunger.
Only a gaze, clear and sharp as the edge of a blade.
A gaze that said: I see you. And still, I let you go.
When she released, the arrow did not fly against the wind.
It understood it.
It followed it, as if the wind were a brother,
carrying it – not on a straight path, but on one
only the heart of a huntress could read.
She lowered the bow.
A drop of rain fell on her forehead.
She did not wipe it away.
Her gaze rested where the arrow had vanished.
And in her hand –
an imprint.
Not from the grip. Not from the arrow.
But from the decision.
A Fragment from Thassaland
She stood at the edge of the jungle.
The ground beneath her feet was soft, dark from the rain of the night.
Moisture hung in the air like an old memory.
She raised the bow. No hesitation. No movement wasted.
Her fingers rested calmly on the string, the arrow already drawn.
The wind played in the leaves, but she did not listen to the rustling.
She listened to the space between –
between movement and stillness, between aim and intent.
"The wind is not an enemy," the old one once said.
"He is a test. He asks whether you are ready not to force – but to yield."
The arrow lay in her hand like a thought, waiting to become true.
No anger guided it. No hunger.
Only a gaze, clear and sharp as the edge of a blade.
A gaze that said: I see you. And still, I let you go.
When she released, the arrow did not fly against the wind.
It understood it.
It followed it, as if the wind were a brother,
carrying it – not on a straight path, but on one
only the heart of a huntress could read.
She lowered the bow.
A drop of rain fell on her forehead.
She did not wipe it away.
Her gaze rested where the arrow had vanished.
And in her hand –
an imprint.
Not from the grip. Not from the arrow.
But from the decision.