Just a brief attempt at a second-person perspective for writing practice.
Psh. Psh. Pch.
Psh. Psh. Pshh. Pchhh.
A raised eyebrow, then a bemused grin. You turn, and there's a fine specimen of agitation and hostility. Naturally, at least according to all those textbooks you've consulted in school and those can't be wrong, nature harbors competition, and though benign, this ritual is no different. The corner of your mouth twitches as a glare is leveled upon you (you idly note the two young rascals behind you scampering away), and then the ritual begins anew. Fierce eyes scour the cracked, yet fine earth in search of the destined, the one weapon to claim victory once and for all. Mediocrity is unacceptable, flaws cannot be present, no dishonorable blemish permittable, nothing short of the perfect ideal can be tolerated. As you run your hands upon a possible candidate, you wonder how something so coarse can be so fine, before idly musing that it matters not and that this cannot possibly be your second bringer of victory. Analytical eyes scour, scan, analyze, dismiss within seconds... but this is not fast enough for you, you who are imbued with the spirit of the hunt, the competition. Like a predator who has found the trail of a rival amidst the tracks of the prey, your legs propel you after the bounding silhoulette of your competitor, who has attained the first strike, the initiative.
At this rate, you muse, as a hunter of a hunter of the prey, you cannot hope to best a rival, nay, archenemy who has the overwhelming advantage of the initiative. First initiative was what led the barbarian hordes to victory against the seasoned legionares of Rome, the Mongols against Asia and Europe, the child who has hid the cookie jar before his parents could. But defeat is unacceptable, a blemish upon your pride, a slight against your very soul and being. As you scan, scour, analyze, dismiss in pursuit of the promised champion. Eye twitching, your hand finds itself atop yet another failure, an incomplete vessel, and you decide that there's no point in following the tracks that have been beaten before you. After all, much of the hunt revolves around the use of cunning...
A provocative taunt, a confident challenge, and snarkily delivered verbal jabs. Your rival, your foe is distracted, and much like a chameleon, facial complexions take the rosy hues of the settin, glowing ball of life and fire distant cosmos away. A quick rapidfire retort is the answering salvo to your provocations, and your foe has been successfully manipulated onto a winding sidepath, trekking into what will be discovered to be a shadowed woodland rife with arching trees and lush ferns... while you take the upper road, the beaten creation of man, the gravelly path that leads to the next area of interest.
Two, three, four minutes, who can keep track of these things, pass before a cry of challenge is heard. Your rival grins with the self-assuredness of one who believes victory is at hand. You smirk, because you know that your victory is nigh.
A quick step back. Toeing the arena, scanning the elements. Your rival prepares the opening volley. Of course, you were a step ahead, and had done so three minutes beforehand. It never hurts to be prepared. And then, with a warcry, an arm slashes through the air, cutting through to launch the curved missile held within the hand.
Psh. Psh. Psh. Psh. Psh. Psh. Psh. Pchhhhhh.
There is an almost physical aura of sheer satisfaction surrounding your rival, one of smug satisfaction upon achieving a long-desired retribution. Ignoring the mocking gestures of your now self-confident opponent, you quirk an eyebrow.
And just like your opponent, your arm slashes like a blinding knife of flesh through the screaming air, flicking, launching the small earthen missile held within your hand. Your eyes track its grayish contours as it spins towards the rippling arena.
Psh. Psh. Psh. Psh. Psh. Psh. Psh. Psh. Psh. Pchhhhhhhhhhh.
You turn towards your now defeated and shamed rival with a grin. Eyes smirking, you mouth a mocking summation of your rival's previous taunts.
Victory once more.
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