He was already releasing his arrow, and following it at a dead run, no longer bothering to stay silent. He slammed the bow between his back and backpack, not the safest or most comfortable spot, but enough to hold it for a few seconds while he drew his knife again. He sprinted as quietly as he could, but at a dead run, focusing on speed with a secondary consideration being staying quiet. So instead of sounding like a charging human, he sounded like a running deer. Loud, but not as much as he could be. It really didn't matter, as he was close enough that by the time he was located, recognized as a threat, a new arrow drawn, notched, pulled and fired, he would be carving pieces out of his gut.<br/><br/>He struck first with the knife point toward the face, a feint to make him flinch and lash out, even as he rolled the knife in his hand, reversing his grip to allow him to hamstring the target. If he hit, he would step past, and then back toward, his free right hand reaching for the face, the other driving the knife upwards between the fifth and sixth ribs, stabbing the large blade, almost a shortsword, through the target's heart, before slitting his throat. If he missed the grab, he rolled away, drawing the bow in his off hand, and using it as a club, the resilient plastics that composed it should be able to resist getting smacked against someone's face.