Clint goes down like a sack of rocks. Little grunt of pain as he lands on his ass, as some of the air is forced out of his lungs. It's deeply, truly painful, but he guesses he should probably just be grateful that wasn't a poison tip or an explosive tip or something equally creative from his quiver. Just an ordinary arrow.

"Should've gone for the leg," he says, tightly. "I'm not much good when my arm's out of commission." He's dripping blood onto the floor, but he's as controlled as he can be. In fact, he becomes more controlled when he's wounded.