Carson felt torn. He had delivered the body to the medical hut and excused himself as the town doctor verified what he already knew. Part of him wanted to stay and beg the family for forgiveness, but he knew that was wrong for two reasons. First, it made it sound as though there was anything Carson could have done to prevent it and the harsh, ugly, unreasonable truth was that he couldn't have done a damn thing.<i>If</i>he had his gun or<i>if</i>he'd stopped them sooner or<i>if</i>he'd patrolled the woods--for all the dozens of excuses he could make this was not his fault. Which led to the second point; this death was not about him. It was not about his failures or his successes, his shortcomings or his flaws. A man had died. The people deserved to mourn that before he tried to apologize to any of them.<br/><br/>So instead he had found the town leader and informed him of the situation. That some kind of feral huntsman in the woods had attacked and stabbed Oliver. Likely a cannibal, if Carson had to guess. Why else attack a lone man? Why else aim for the stomach, where all the inedible organs lay? He spared the mayor those details, though, and left him to decide on appropriate defenses and measures as he returned to the hut that would be his base in Little Lake. There he strapped on the rest of his gear; a long, sleek rifle with an antique scope mounted along the top rail was slung by shoulder strap across his back. The jerkin he already wore passed for armor--the coat he slid on over it was padded and hardened in places, but little more than leather and wool aside. On his opposite hip he wore his sidearm, a pistol with deadly accuracy. Along with the rest of his supplies, he was ready to go out and hunt the murderer--<br/><br/>At which point he paused yet again and weighed his options. Responsibility to the town meant that he should stay and make sure nobody else left, especially relatives or friends who might be eager for blood and wind up only tasting their own. But in his heart he wanted to hunt down and destroy the man that had done this. It felt fair. It felt<i>right.</i>But it was irresponsible, an irrational response from the one person in this community who had to favor rationality and survivability above all else. When he left the shack he still wore his full kit, resolved to at least be ready for anything, and returned to the medical building. A woman was wailing inside--the man's mother or wife, he reasoned. Malia sat outside, surrounded by mourners, but they parted as Carson approached. He knew how he must look. Grim. Angry. Hardened. For once it felt appropriate.<br/><br/>"I'm sorry," he told her quietly once he'd knelt next to her. He didn't touch her, mindful of her personal space. He was a stranger, after all. Even if he'd only just washed her brother's blood off his hands. "If I had been a minute quicker, then." He cut himself off and shook his head. "I promise, Malia. I'll find the beast that did this." If not today then soon. He had to promise himself that much.