monsters and men

Sylen wandered toward the gun, lifted it, fiddled with it, disarmed it, took the bullet, and then tossed it toward the nobleman, by his feet.

There was an uncomfortable tension from the nobleman, not one so much of lingering fear, but edged with insult, a tension that might grow to hostility if left unchecked. At least, that's what Sylen felt, and he wanted to cover his bases. He also went to grab the long knife-- also ornate-- off the ground, kept it to himself. He made no move to take the thug's knife. It was small, made for mugging, not slashing; it would need to either be thrown or used at a nearly intimate range, both of which Sylen concluded the man before him was utterly incapable of accomplishing. He checked the thug's pulse; still good. It would be a rough day, but still a day to be lived through.

"I'll give you your knife back later," Sylen explained, already walking away, slipping the blade into his belt. "If you're coming with me, since, you know." He paused in his tracks, kept his eyes low, tilted his head toward where he'd come from. "Your horse and food are gone."

He turned his head back and kept walking, sweeping his crossbow's strap around toward his chest, half-tucking the thing under an elbow while he reloaded it, letting his feet guide him forward, deeper into the wood, away from the chaos behind him.