Still stepping with the careful precision of combat, Tha'ael closes with an arrow nocked upon the seated, wounded rider that, in shock, clutches his throat's gouting wound as he chokes back blood with his air.  Each long-legged step like a waterbird-- careful not to create ripples as it stalks, she closes upon him and dips her bow, three times, gesturing from his ashen face to the ground.  Silently, the pointed motion seems to say<i>climb down</i>, its repetition adding a polite post-script:<i>could've shot you, again, already</i>.<br/><br/>She doesn't meet Ada's gaze yet-- watching the quarry and, perhaps, ready to slay the horse or rider if he dares to leave.  Her black hair is matted to her pale cheeks and neck, except for the pleat that juts from the base of her skull like a wet cockscomb, and her polished-steep eyes glimmer in the faint lantern-light-- never leaving her quarry.  She answers Ada's question, her voice lacking the volume or the insistence of his initial call.<br/><br/>"Not friends," she says coldly.<br/><br/>Regardless if the mounted rider, with the arrow still in his throat, is able to climb down or not, or if he simply falls from his saddle, she will gradually ease back the arrow and, holding it still, work her way into more conversational distance.<br/><br/>"Brigands, most like... stolen horses off the crown, ridin' up on your lot with swords a'hind their backs, wantin' to get first kills."