Gods help us if the others are far behind, Astra thinks, but the thought isn't thick with the dread of mortality it might be. Every hunter knows that they too are hunted...you either reach some kind of peace with it, or the weight of those soft footfalls behind you will drive you mad.
Even so, the rush of adrenalin washes out distracting sounds, and colors fade save for those of the ogre. It stands out in her vision with uncanny clarity...the wartlike-knobs in its thick hide, and the tarnished grey loops of each chain link in its hauberk.
Yes. She knew how to hurt ogres.
In that instant when time seemed to slow, the elf drew back an arrow...a slim but strong shaft of yew; tipped with elfwrought steel and fletched with black raven's feathers in honor of the mistress of death that it sought to bring...aimed for just a moment, and let fly.
The arrow flew precisely on the path chosen, striking a tiny rip in its chainmail directly over one of the few places an ogre's important organs lay fairly close to the skin. The results were, Astra judged distantly, satisfactory.
(OOC - Result of attack: Critical hit for 57 damage!)