There would be no fouler way to meet death then that by a peasant’s bow. Frans Vou stood in rapt attention, his booted feet spread ready to spring at a moment’s notice, his blood eyes darting from bush to tree in a vain attempt to spot one of these “bandits” disguised amongst the foliage. The Breton knight was no woodsman, and his untrained gaze could spot neither hide nor hair of any individual. Whether that be due to his inexperience or the actual lack of foemen Frans Vou did not know. Shrugging his shoulders the knight errant took his heater shield in hand, bracing it before his chest to guard his bulk from the woodsman’s shafts, his other hand resting on his sword hilt. Frans Vou wished he’d worn his plate and chain, the steel might’ve guaranteed his protection from the arrows, and he could press forward and engage this threat face to face, but alas the gambeson he donned then, though a decent protection against a slashing blade would fare little better than linen against a longbow. No, battle would not aid them this day, if there were truly a horde of peasants hiding in the trees diplomatic words would save any bloodshed.

	Of course his companions and the bandits did not seem to share this understanding, and conflict arose in a flurry of arrows and ice. The Breton gasped at the seep and ferocity in which the ice-mage and bandit attacked, and braced himself to feel arrows thunk heavy against his shield, and yet none came. Eyes hardening Frans Vou drew his blade in a steely hiss, pointing the longsword towards the hail-pattered tree from which the arrow emerged. “[i]Montjoie[/i] brigand, zee knows not what zee sayiz! Zere be [i]nomagicien de la mort[/i] amongst our ranks. Zy acts are zat of a coward an’ fool. Surrender lest we charge ye an’ smite zee where ye stand foul denizen of zee forest.” 

	Casting his gaze to his left Frans Vou ensured his companions would indeed support his advance forward should the man not surrender himself forthwith. He was quite confident at this stage that their attacker was indeed alone, perhaps some brigand hoping to loot the corpses of the dead. Whatever his purpose the Breton knew swift action would be required to placate him. Frans Vou knew well that the man was skilled with the bow, evidenced by the swift succession of arrows he’d loosed. Even the skilled longbow sergeants his father employed for the Bluspereaux garrison couldn’t draw and shoot with such accuracy and speed. If he wished to see another dawn he would have to press in close to where the longbow would be useless even in the hands of the most skilled archer.

	Taking a single step forward Frans Vou readied himself for the charge, laying the flat of his blade against his shield, the battle-hardened edge readying to sing and taste blood if need be.