Rayadell gave a single-shoulder shrug. “Fair enough.”
	When the elk trod between her and Calanon, she instinctively stiffened and took a step away, keeping a wary eye on the beast. She looked away just long enough to glance to the sky, partially obscured by the foliage brave enough to face the cold weather. She sighed, hoping the archer would not take long to regain consciousness. 
	Thankfully, it only took a couple minutes before the archer began to stir. It seemed to take the man a moment to fully register his situation, before he scuttled back in fear.
	Rayadell gave her staff a little magical push, and one of the blades retracted from the top end with a gentle, ominous [i]shing[/i] as the archer backed himself into a tree. Holding her staff to the side at the ready, using the shaft to keep her cloak from opening wide enough to expose her folded wings, she took a couple slow steps to the side in case he panicked and tried running. She stared down at him with her one visible, unforgiving eye, her expression hard.
	Her head tilted slightly toward Calanon when he released an arrow, drawing an immediate surrender from their once-attacker. She snorted at the man’s cowardice.
	At Cordon's answer about his boss, Rayadell scowled and looked to the man she had fought, his body looking more like a mound of rocks in the middle of the road than a corpse. Of [i]course[/i] she had killed the one who could have given them decent answers. But there was nothing she could do about it now.
	When Calanon finished his questioning, her eyes narrowed. She saw Calanon look to her in the corner of her eye, but she did not look from Cordon.
	She could not tell whether the archer was an expert liar, or simply a disposable tool for the Promixtra. He did not [i]look[/i] like much of a threat, but looks could be deceiving snakes. What she did know was, as far as she was aware, the only people who knew they would be passing through, were the Carishes. It was possible, she supposed, that any number of ‘rich folk’ could have been expected, and they had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but Rayadell was not one to put much stock in things being just a coincidence. At least, until she knew for sure one way or the other. 
	“A coward,” she began, her voice low and dangerous, “a thief, and a Promixtra with no useful information.” She stepped forward to stand in front of him and stretched her blade toward him so its sharp edge rested only inches from his chest. “You don’t have much in your favor, do you, [i]Cordon?[/i]” She spat his name.
	She paused, her head cocking to the side. “But unless my companion has a better idea,” she cast Calanon half a glance, “I’ll make you a deal. We’ll be passing back through here in a few days’ time. Stay here and be a lookout for any ‘rich folk’ or odd happenings, and report what you find to us upon our return. Or,” she pressed the tip of her blade against his chest just enough for its sharpness to prick into him past his clothes, “I can send you to your grave with your fellow highwaymen. Your choice.”