He watched her go for a moment before he forced himself to look away. If he knew where she was hiding he'd be unable to resist looking toward her as the discussion proceeded. And even besides that, he had his own prep to do. He got to work right away, checking for any obvious lines or traps on the ground. He shook bushes and rattled the smaller trees, but nothing appeared to be out of sorts. There were no tracks, either--the scuffle of days prior had been well and washed away even with the canopy above, and if anyone had been through here since they'd either hidden their tracks or hadn't left any.<br/><br/>In the absence of any obvious traps, he set a few of his own. He dug a shallow hole with his hatchet and covered it with small sticks, then a layer of dead leaves and a bit of dirt, an ankle-twister that would stop anyone on the run rather painfully, but nonlethally. He bent a small tree down nearly in half, hidden among the hardy bushes at its base, and rigged a snare that would stop anyone who stepped in it cold. He worked quickly and quietly, setting up several such traps around the meeting area. He had just finished with the final pitfall when one of the snares went off, and he heard someone yelp and then shriek.<br/><br/>Carson hurried back toward the sound, swearing under his breath. Who the hell would come out here, to a meeting between Huntsman and Strider? It was like getting between a bear and a wolfpack. Not wise. He found the person in question rapidly enough, flailing on the ground, half-suspended as the sapling kept the rope taut around his foot. The person was certainly male, though smaller than Carson. He wore a leather coat that was a few sizes too big, and beneath that a banded leather breastplate that had been strapped on extra-tight to make up for how much smaller he was than whoever it was meant for. A belt was strapped around his waist, too, with a Strider's hatchet in the holster, like Carson's but older and with an engraved design on the blade. The pistol holster was empty, but had clearly been modified for a suppressor--something Carson had only ever heard about. On the ground next to the flailing man was a complex sort of bow, which Carson recognized as an old-world compound bow, along with a quiver of arrows identical to the one that had been shot at him.<br/><br/>He knelt down to pick up the bow, turning it over in his hands. The weapon had been heavily used and personalized, and on one metallic arm a name had been scratched into the paint.<i>Gregor.</i>He scowled and looked down at the smaller man, who had stopped flailing and had his hands up next to his head. Carson tipped the bow so the name was visible. "I don't think this belongs to you."<br/><br/>"The guy I took it from couldn't exactly use it," the man responded, his voice quiet and just a hair too arrogant for Carson's liking. Aside from being slight of build, he had bright blonde hair and smiling blue eyes, and was beautiful in a very male sort of way. He shrugged where he lay. "Besides, you Striders always hoard the nicest stuff. Who's to blame for looking out for themselves, eh? Speaking of, er--would you mind, um?" He pointed down at the thin wire around his ankle, keeping his foot tightly in its boot. Carson glanced at it and ignored his request.<br/><br/>"Who are you? How did you find the body?"<br/><br/>"Me? I'm Max. Maxim Cornelius DeSanta. The third. The latest in a long line of dashing rogues. As for how I found your friend--"<br/><br/>"He wasn't my friend."<br/><br/>"Right, of course, skull tattoo. My bad. I found your<i>associate</i>about a week ago, not long after he'd been killed and left to rot. Being the sort never to want a good thing to go to waste I went ahead and buried the poor fellow, so he could have a bit of dignity, but liberated him of his more... accessible goods. Really, good sir, my foot is starting to fall asleep--"<br/><br/>"Did you fire the arrow with the note at me?"<br/><br/>"Ah, that. Yes, in fact, I did. You see, I have some information you might want to know. If there'd been a way to approach you without risk of getting shot I would have, and I can't exactly access the town without some of that bread your sort makes, so I had to make due. I'm a pretty good archer, you know, and the quality of that bow only helps. Now, about my foot--"<br/><br/>Carson sighed and reached down to pull the hatchet out of Max's stolen belt, then cut the wire with a single swing. "Malia!" he called out, "It's safe. Come on down. This guy's about as harmless as a stray mouse."<br/><br/>"I will have you know that mice are exceptionally dangerous and skilled infiltrators, sir," Max protested, sitting up to tug the wire off of his ankle. He took his foot out of the too-large boot to start rubbing some feeling back into it, staying seated on the ground.