Carson gauged the threat around them as the Runners closed in. Too close, he thought. Much too close. At this proximity they could thrust, but not much else, and his armor would protect him against the worst of that. He kept his hands still but he knew he could reach his pistol in time. At this range the 12mm slugs would rip through flesh and bone like tissue. Given their number, their lack of outward experience, and what he had on him, he estimated he could dispatch at least eight before the rest even knew what was going on. Blood thundered in his ears as he prepared to fight for his life.<br/><br/>And then, all at once, it was over. He'd barely heard the exchanges before Malia hugged the older man. A friend, clearly. Carson let his shoulders relax, and the tension drained back into the stone beneath him. The Runners were twice as xenophobic as any normal village, and that disturbed him greatly. Still, he set that aside and squeezed her hand back. At her comment he shrugged lightly. "Maybe." It didn't seem wise to confess that he had been planning on how exactly he would kill, disarm, or otherwise incapacitate her supposed teammates. Not when the actual evil Striders were doing so<i>without</i>provocation. He followed the Runners into their fortress--which to him was certainly what the tall walls and thick door symbolized--and held his coat a little tighter over himself and his face, the better to obscure it as they stepped in from biting cod to relative warmth.