Bow stave in hand, the hunter lurked. It would be best to just gloss over why he was here, because he wasn’t even sure himself. Fight a man who wields death or something, that was the call to arms. Thomas sighed sarcastically, he could clearly see the man about three hundred feet down stood on the road, from his position in a low crouch just to the left of the west side of the road in this little farm. He was hiding in a patch of wheat, well concealed to a point. Considering most of his quarry had unearthly ways of detecting him wherever he hid, he wasn’t too optimistic about maintaining stealth for any length of time. Yet who knew, perhaps this time he’d get lucky. 

The archer was clothed in a gambeson of hide of dark colouration, and his black masked kettle helmet was similarly dark, which wasn’t necessarily the best camouflage in a wheat field. He’d had to cut a small area to lurk in with the sword at his hip, working quickly while the armoured man was unaware. 

Missing introductions seemed a little rude, but Thomas recognised needs must, best to just end it quickly before he had to worry about being killed by some magic he couldn’t fight fairly. He drew one of thirty arrows from the quiver at his back, watching it transform into a demonically wizened shatterhead, and nocked it to his bow, slowly drawing back the string. He crouched in that position, drawing power into the weapon, watching.