monsters and men

He'd started his path once again, the road to Namarast. This time, though, he'd done it in a way he would've preferred the first time: through the woods, and alone. And this time, he wasn't going for respite; he was going to have his problem removed.

He patted the side of his satchel, hand sliding over the pouch he kept his coin in; enough, more than enough. Nearly everything he had, to pay Agathias for the service-- and it would be worth it. It had to be.

He wove his way through the forest, keeping his steps light, pace swift. The treants from before had withered, somehow, were no longer in the woods-- but he still flinched, swept to the side and crouched behind rough foliage, when he heard the snapping branches, whinnying horse, and a chorus of stressed shouts.

They blew past him; no treants. Just a horse still wearing stocked saddlebags, whites of its eyes showing, and a collection of angry men chasing after it, hollering and barking at it like a pack of ravenous hunting dogs.

Sylen frowned, kept still until they were out of sight. There were a few too many men there-- all on foot-- to be chasing after a single horse. He peered in the direction they'd come from, held his breath to listen.

In the distance there was a voice, a deep one, and a silence between that made Sylen think a softer voice was responding. He withdrew his crossbow and slipped forward, keeping to the thicker parts of the wood. He came within proper earshot of the voices and crouched, watching.

Some burly man, dressed like the other lot, had someone smaller pinned against a tree, knife to the throat. A few belongings sat crooked on the ground behind them, clearly not meant to be-- a pistol, for one, and a beautiful one at that. The man against the tree writhed behind the blade as his mugger tore a piece of jewelry from his neck, the thin chain snapping at the back.

Sylen didn't know the whole situation, of course. There was great potential for the man currently playing victim to be just as nasty as the others. However, based on everything Sylen had just seen, he felt more than comfortable with his next few choices.

Sylen lifted his crossbow, still hidden in the trees, aimed; the bolt struck true and plunged into the mugger's calf, bringing the man down onto one knee, his grip and blade falling from his victim as he reeled, strained to pull the bolt out. Sylen darted forward, kicked the pistol on the ground away from the mugger, then lifted the bow and slammed it against the side of the fallen man's head before there was any chance of retaliation.

The mugger fell onto his side, blood slipping down his leg, squinting in Sylen's direction; Sylen lifted a foot and kicked the mugger's forehead, hard, with the heel of his boot. The mugger's eyes instantly fell shut and the man went limp.

Sylen turned, glanced at the victim: slim, with loose curls like his own, though much paler than he was, and adorned in much, much different clothes-- namely jewelry in silver and ruby, among other things. Already-large eyes stared widely in Sylen's direction; Sylen quickly averted his gaze, uninterested in meeting eyes.

He slung his crossbow back over his shoulder. "Hi," he said, as he looked down at the man on the ground. He reached down to pluck the necklace from the man's pocket, then held it out as he looked toward the pistol. "Here's your thing."