The vein in his head throbbed. "Like I said, don't call me that," Archibald said through gritted teeth as he screwed his eye shut. Still, he listened to the wild man speak his nonsense. He...could barely make sense of it at least. "And while you're at it, learn some proper Magvellian," he added as he removed a small ceramic jar from his belt. Dipping a finger into it as he uncapped it, it came out covered in a stickly amber resin which he proceeded to suck off. It was sweet in his mouth with a slight minty refreshing taste, but started to grow harder as he chewed. "But I think I get the gist of it. You promised to help these...prudes, right?" he asked as he vaguely nodded his head in the direction of Alvin and the others. He sighed. "And I know that your promises are harder to break than a bandit's share of loot." Running a gloved hand through his hair, he let out another, deeper sigh. "Alright....tell you what, just this once, I'll help the Grado dirtbags with their little fight," he said as he kicked a loose cobblestone into the wall, "but only until we get the hell out of here, got it?"

It was then that a wyvern rider approached, addressing Retario...and acting like Archibald wasn't even there. He spat onto the ground as he left. A Prince...great...He didn't exactly have the best opinion on royals in the first place, but those near the top he assumed to be the worst. He might as well be a ghost to them for all he was worth. He gave Retario a look of 'do I have to?' before shaking his head. Like Retario, he had promised to help, at least until they left the castle. And to a bandit like him, honour was almost all he had left. That and 3 sacks full of dried meats, cheese and potatoes. Oathbreakers were, in his opinion, worse than the royals. As he thought about that, he spat out the gum resin in his mouth, where it splattered against the wall. "Alright...lets do this," he muttered as he unslung his bow from his shoulder, striding forwards with little hurry. 

As the wyvern rider closed for an attack, Archibald was already in the midst of preparations. With his index and middle fingers, he plucked one of the arrows from his quiver, letting it flip around his fingers before catching it in his fist. Raising his bow, he nocked it into position on his worn beastgut string and reeled his arm back, feeling the wood of his bow begin to creak. Everything seemed to slow down in time as his one eye concentrated on the target at hand. The apprehension on the soldier's face as he attempted to bring his shield up to parry, the face of the man next to him as he scrambled backwards. The spittle dragging down from the wyvern's lips as it charged headlong into battle. Archibald narrowed his eye. Wordlessly, he released his arrow. With time dragging on as it did, Archibald saw the shaft of the arrow quiver as it shot forwards. He saw the few splinters on the crude wood split off against the bow. He could pinpoint the exact time where the fletching caused the arrow to spiral. He smiled. This would be a close shot.

Within the next millisecond, time seemed to normalise.  The arrow became nigh on invisible to an untrained eye and flew straight and true. Towards Alvin and Medea. As they rose into the air for their attack, the arrow seared past them close enough to scrape off of Alvin's greave, leaving a small discolouration and a single spark as it barreled straight for the soldier's flank. Archibald aimed to maim. Not kill. If someone who wasn't him or of his band finished the job, so be it. It was then that he heard a sinister voice in his head speak to him, but he shook it off. Now was not the time.