Cromwell paused what he was doing. Definitely not a traveler, if they could guess who he was so easily. His movements stopped for the most part, a slight sway on his feet freezing in a perfectly upright stance. His arms lowered, displaying the sword in his hand. He didn't hear a weapon being drawn, but he did hear some sort of movement. He was ready with whatever he would turn around to see, as the voice did not ring any bells in his head.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff0000">"Not a traveler then,"</span>he said with an eerie calmness about him. It was a tone of voice he used rarely, but one Ashryn would remember from times where crowds were too thick or something was amiss.<i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff0000"> "May the nameless son guide our blades and may Flisei ferry our fallen to the Dread King,"</span></i>Cromwell said, little more than a whisper as he slowly drew his blade.<br/><br/>The blade of the sword shimmered in the light, untarnished despite countless battles. It was of simple make for the most part. The only oddity was that it was slightly thicker for about the first fourth of the blade, causing a slant as the metal flowed. The middle of the blade, where a small divet set along the length -as appropriate for longswords- held dozens of runes equally spaced along it. Some were old, which Ashryn may remember if she ever caught the blade out of it's scabbard. Others... others were new. And at least one of them she would be able to recognize as what her father and tutors would call a heretical symbol. The sound of rustling began around Ashryn, in each cardinal direction and two from behind her. If she risked a glance back, she would see a pair of archers stepping out onto the trail, bows pulled and at the ready. The rest, she could not tell if it was an animal or another archer taking aim at her. Cromwell dropped the scabbard, using gravity to grab hold of a couple of the daggers and pull them free as the scabbard fell.<br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff0000">"If you could recognize me so well, or at least make such an educated guess, then I assume you are after my bounty. Doing so alone makes it a fool's errand,"</span>Cromwell said, suddenly kicking at the ground and tossing his body back. His foot planted about a yard away from where he stood, and he pivoted, moving to release the daggers. It was then that he finally saw her face. It had been nearly two decades, but he remembered it. Naturally, it caused a moment of pause mentally, to ensure his mind was not playing a trick on him. But it was her. It was the little princess that he had used to protect. Not a threat, at least not in and of herself. He stopped his movement short, planting his other foot early and not flinging the arm holding his daggers. He reset his feet underneath him and spoke up.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff0000">"Wake everyone. Move the camp. She's no threat, but an entourage is surely nearby," </span>Cromwell said, barking orders to those visible and invisible.<br/><br/>The men behind Ashryn hesitated for a moment, before they disappeared into the foliage around her. There was quite a bit of rustling for a time as the men left, Cromwell simply standing there, staring down the wayward princess. The rustling eventually stopped, and Cromwell was glowering.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff0000"> "Go home Princess. Your family's never been suited to being among the common folk,"</span>Cromwell said, authority hanging in his voice where there should be none.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff0000">"Run home to daddy and his friends and tell them that their heretic and deserters rest in shallow graves."</span>