Stur released a long breath as the headless troll finally moved its last. Immediately he picked up his weapons from their places within the fetid flesh of the creature (heaving tremendously to free the axe from where it had been embedded in the stump of the neck) and wiped them down. Wouldn't do at all to have whatever hellwater they had for blood etching his fighting steel. With a final savage kick to the thing's abdomen to ensure it was really done coming back to life, he turned without a word to any of his companions and made straight for the supply wagon, shooting a venomous look at their cowardly "guide" as he did so. Gods-damned casters and their little tricks. Couldn't even be bothered to let the ones that did the work claim the satisfaction of the kill.
The mercenary opened his travel pack and felt around blindly until his hands closed around the yielding material of his waterskin. In one well-practiced motion he unstoppered the skin, lifted it to his lips and took a long pull. Warm wine flooded into his mouth, immediately calming him down. After the adrenaline of the battle had worn off, he had felt so very tired. That fucking shoulder had gone to aching again where he had thrown himself into the somersault, and he didn't want the others to see how his hands had started shaking so badly as he pulled his axe free. Still breathing, he reminded himself.
Feeling considerably better, he sighed deeply and looked around at the other members of the company. Everyone seemed more or less unharmed, though a few had been splashed by that blood... Stur's eyes fell on the king's guard. Brynan was completely covered with the stuff after that little maneuver she had pulled there at the end. He couldn't help but respect her all the more for it - she'd been fearless, and turned her rage into a potent weapon. The marks of a good fighter, in his book. He wordlessly trudged back over to the corpse of the troll, holding out the wine in her direction.