What’s with that crazy guy in the feathered cap? He appears to be hungover. Last night was a hell of a bender in the woods with all the other men around the fire. The grog flowed freely while bragging and storytelling circled the camp. Tales of prowess in battle using sharp bladed swords, heavy axes and the pointed arrow. Now there is a weapon of practice and precision.

Fixing his cap, he takes his stance looking towards the golden locks of a beautiful child standing straight against a tree in the warm morning sun shivering as a leaf on a winter branch. Small eyes squint tight as the archer’s grip, a red orb balanced atop her head. She shouldn’t be a part of this wager placed by drunken fools. He pulls back the bow sighting the bright red apple, SWOOSH the arrow flies!

Suddenly Newton is awakened by a bump on his head, another foggy dream beneath the apple tree.