Linflas picked an arrow from his quiver, delicately licked the tips of the feathers and attached it to his bow. Elven mucus was famous for it's accuracy, especially when jettisoned from a juvenile. He taught his muscles in his shoulder and pulled his arm back and just held it there, looking intently down the shaft of the arrow into the dark depths of the corridoor.
His reputation as an archer swept from the Caspan mountain range down to the Sssyle swamps, across the Hemian sea and over to the Western planes of Asadfas. The lizardmen paid dutiful respect to his abilities, the humans bowed to his knowledge as a bowman, the halflings paid tribute to his experience as a fletcher, and the dwarves laughed at his paisly underpants.
With experience that was passed down from elven generation to generation spanning an aeon, he.... Let go.
A woosh of the missle could be heard then another, more muffled and distant sound could be heard emanating from the darkness.
A shocked silence spread across the party, except for Gando who was almost collapsing in muffled laughter at his ventriloquist joke. Noone dared look at Linflas, whose blood had drained from his face in horror. Was that a tear of pain in his eye? Look, Gando appears to be crying as well, biting into his hand at the suffering of a poor innocent soul.