"Never said you was. Just that fighting with your ribs broke is damn hard." Amos's reply is amiable, easy, as he walks along the corridor. Though he's wearing steel-toed boots, his footfalls are very quiet. He's had a lot of practise, and is light on his feet. He draws and arrow from his quiver and sets it to the string, walking along with his weapon as ready as he can get it.

The twists and turns of the dimly-lit tunnels are not new to him, and he navigates as much by memory as by sense: thoughts of anger-hunger there and he'l take this turning instead...