For Faris, the fact that her father's gruff face was suddenly exchanged for a much younger man's visage was perhaps a more welcome repreive than she let on, barely batting an eye at the sudden change. 

The next few seconds, however, brought an hateful smirk to her haggard face. 

Hark's charge interrupted Duraid's contemplation of the arrival of the wolf-pack, drawing a frown to the large man's face in the few seconds he had before a fight was inevitable. 

Perhaps it was because of the obvious challenge and misplaced chivalry that the fist-slinging newcomer displayed in spades. Perhaps it was because his daughter had nearly done the exact same thing a few moments earlier.

Instead of the unarmed combat he'd been forced into before, Duraid chose what he felt was the much wiser decision.

He disengaged from the fight entirely, leaping backwards as soon as the younger man began to swing his fists, ignoring both the feint and the actual punch as the warrior darted toward the edge of the hard-packed ground. He came to a halt at the rack of practice weapons, selecting one of the bows with almost cat-like grace, and a single, metallic arrow. 

Only then did he speak again, his words slow and measured as he nocked the arrow and began to draw the bow, the wood creaking and groaning as the strain of his massive muscles tugging on the small weapon began to show itself. He still hadn't turned to face Hark again, perhaps to add insult to injury.

[b]"Boy, I'm fairly certain that you don't know where you are. Or that your misguided sense of justice will get you killed. As it stands, you've come to [i]my[/i] camp, and charged both myself and my daughter. From what I recall, that'd make you a Vinsenian spy, then? They don't make them as smart as they used to. So, instead, I'll ask you your own question. What the [i]hell[/i] are you doing?"[/b]