The older male was wordless in his response. Like Oren, he understood that words weren't needed when a moment like this arose. They existed to comfort the captive, and, comfort the captor. A ritual to absolve the former of fear, and the latter of guilt. Which was redundant as far as they were concerned. Oren, who had steadily earned Montana's respect, had no fear, and the regenerator who expressed this respect with a single nod, felt no shred of guild. No pang of conscious.

From within, he withdrew a blade. It was long, slightly curved toward the middle, and ending in a straight point. Wrought of modern steel, and buffed by the bodies it had been plunged into during its career. It held a strange sheen in the low light. It had been dipped in poison, none save an experienced, or extremely astute observer would notice this small fact. 

Before he could act, he heard a pair of feet descending the stairs. He could distinguish each wanderer by the sound and style of their gait. At times, even their moods, by the hasty or lackluster sound of their movements. If he was correct, this was Dawn descending the stairs. 

[i]"Montana."[/i]

The blade returned to its sheath, tucked neatly by his ribcage. 

Montana was well aware his body could, at times, move quicker than thought, and that a contest between his body and her mind wouldn't be unlike two gunslingers with their hands poised above their revolvers, twenty paces at high noon.

He had sheathed it because he respected her wishes. 

Instead, Montana knelt beside the woman, and produced a small canteen of water. He angled her face upward with a finger beneath her chin, and slowly tipped the contents toward her mouth. Water of life.