#crossbows

I'm trying something different with this one! If you'd like to see a longer edit with a little more nuance and extra demonstrations, you can find it here.

I'll be posting more long videos to my Youtube when I can, because I'm trying to get them to officially recognise me as the originator of the videos!

Bone inlaid crossbow, Germany, circa 1580

OKAY LOVE THIS ITS SO REALISTIC BECAUSE LETS BE REAL THE AMOUNT OF TIME DARYL SPENDS IN THE WOODS THE RING WOULD NEVER BE SEEN AGAIN

The soft afternoon sun, dappled and warm, filtered through the leaves of the ancient oak in your backyard, painting shifting patterns on the rustic wooden porch where you and Daryl sat. It wasn’t a new ritual for you both. After the world had… well, after it had settled, finding a semblance of peace, these quiet moments became your anchors. The air hummed with the gentle buzz of unseen insects and the distant murmur of birdsong, a stark, beautiful contrast to the cacophony that had once defined your lives.

You leaned your head against Daryl’s shoulder, the familiar scent of woodsmoke and worn leather a comforting balm. His arm, strong and steady, was around you, his hand resting possessively on your waist. It had been years since you’d stood before that small, makeshift altar, his rough hands trembling slightly as he’d placed the offered object in yours. Not a ring, no. Rings were too fragile, too easily lost or broken in the chaos. Instead, he’d presented you with a meticulously crafted, perfectly scaled-down crossbow, its polished wood gleaming, a testament to his skill and a symbol of the shared journey you were embarking upon. It was your wedding band, a promise etched not in metal, but in the very essence of your survival and your love.

He’d watched you with those piercing blue eyes, a rare softness softening their usual intensity, as you’d returned the gesture. Your own crossbow, a mirror image of his, felt solid and reassuring in your grasp. It was a declaration: that you would always protect each other, that you would face whatever came your way, together. The weight of it, though light, was a constant reminder of the vows you’d exchanged, vows whispered under a sky bruised with the last vestiges of twilight, vows that resonated with the unspoken understanding of battles fought and won, side-by-side.

But the true, indelible mark of your union wasn't just the matching weapons. It was etched onto your skin, a silent testament visible only to each other, and to yourselves in the quiet of your shared home. As you shifted, the sunlight caught the intricate design on your inner wrist. A stylized arrow, its fletching flowing into a delicate vine, a subtle nod to the wildness that had brought you together, and the grounding love that kept you anchored.

Daryl’s thumb absently traced the faint outline of his own matching tattoo on his forearm, a mirror image of yours, his gaze following the line of your arm as if memorizing every curve. He’d insisted on the tattoos, his gruff voice surprisingly earnest. “Something that ain’t gonna break,” he’d said, his gaze locked onto yours. “Something that’s always gonna be there.” And he was right. They were as much a part of you now as your own heartbeat.

“Thinking ‘bout it?” Daryl’s voice, a low rumble, broke the comfortable silence.

You hummed in acknowledgement, your eyes still tracing the patterns on the porch. “Just… remembering.” The memories came in flashes, sharp and vivid, yet softened by the passage of time and the enduring strength of your bond. The fear, the desperation, the sheer grit it had taken for you both to simply be. And then, the slow, hesitant blooming of something beautiful in the ashes of despair.

He shifted, turning fully towards you, his gaze intent. “What are you remembering?”

You looked up at him then, your heart swelling with a familiar ache, one that was more joy than pain. “Everything,” you confessed, a soft smile gracing your lips. “The first time you taught me to properly load this thing,” you gestured to your crossbow, “how patient you were, even when I kept fumbling with the string.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “You weren’t fumbling. Just… getting the feel of it.” He paused, his blue eyes holding yours. “You were good. Always were.”

You met his gaze, a silent understanding passing between you. He’d seen you at your worst, at your most broken, and had loved you anyway. He’d found strength in your vulnerability, and you in his resilience. “And you,” you continued, your voice soft, “the way you looked at me when we were hiding out in that old barn, the rain outside, and you just… you just held me. Didn’t say a word, but it was like you were saying everything.”

His hand tightened slightly on your waist, a silent affirmation. He wasn’t a man of flowery words, but his actions, his quiet presence, spoke volumes. He pulled you closer, your bodies fitting together with an ease born of years of practice, of shared breath and whispered secrets.

“Remember that night, by the river?” he asked, his voice dropping even lower, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “When we thought those walkers were closing in, and you grabbed this,” he tapped your crossbow, “and stood right in front of me?”

Your smile widened. Oh, you remembered. The fear had been a cold knot in your stomach, but the fierce protectiveness that had surged through you had been even stronger. You’d seen the wildness in his eyes, the primal instinct to defend, and you’d mirrored it. It wasn’t just about survival anymore; it was about protecting him.

“I wasn’t going to let anything happen to you,” you murmured, your gaze drifting to his tattoo. “Not ever again.”

He brought your hand, the one with the matching tattoo, to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your wrist. The warmth of his lips sent a shiver down your spine, a familiar tremor of desire and deep, abiding love. “And I wasn’t gonna let anything happen to you,” he echoed, his voice husky. “That’s why these,” he tapped his crossbow, then yours, then the ink on your skin, “are important. They’re our promise. To each other.”

You traced the lines of his jaw with your fingertips, marveling at the rough texture of his stubble, the strength that lay beneath. “They are,” you agreed, feeling a profound sense of gratitude for the quiet life you’d built, for the man who had walked through fire with you and emerged, not unscathed, but unbroken.

The conversation drifted, weaving through memories of shared hunts, of quiet nights by the fire, of stolen moments of tenderness that had cemented your bond. You spoke of the challenges you’d overcome, not with bitterness, but with a quiet pride in your resilience. You talked about the small joys – the taste of fresh berries from the garden, the warmth of the sun on your faces, the comfort of simply existing, together, in a world that had once threatened to tear you apart.

As the sun began its slow descent, casting long shadows across the yard, Daryl reached for his crossbow leaning against the porch railing. He didn’t need it for protection now, not in the way he once had. But it was a part of him, a part of you. He handed it to you, his fingers brushing against yours, a familiar spark igniting. You accepted it, your hands moving with practiced grace, the wood warm and familiar beneath your touch.

He then reached for his own, a silent invitation. Without a word, you both raised your weapons, aligning them, the polished wood and taut strings glinting in the fading light. It wasn’t a threat, not a challenge. It was a dance, a shared gesture of partnership, a silent testament to your enduring love.

You lowered your crossbow, turning to face him fully. His gaze was steady, his love for you a palpable force that surrounded you like a warm cloak. He understood you, perhaps better than anyone else ever could. He saw the scars, both visible and hidden, and loved you not despite them, but because of them.

“Come on,” he said, his voice a low murmur, rising from his seat. He offered you his hand. “Let’s go check on those traps.”

AvidMc (Vampires SMP) with various suitable stims!

The unit leader here looks so cool. I love his incongruously Hellenistic helmet. I wish I played ttrpgs just so I could use this mini as my dwarf fighter. He'll work great for Frostgrave though.

"Wallace Wood, 21 October 1977 in Derby, Connecticut. Photo by Mike Zeck."

From the back cover of World of Wood #1, April 1986.