@jenessa-the-darkmoon:
When there had been no reply, Jenessa inched her way across the room slowly, being careful to settle her weight carefully on the rotted boards. Pulling her sword back so that it remained parallel with her leg, the woman reached the doorway to another room and settled lightly against it, her naked blade resting against her thigh.
Peering carefully around the corner, the Darkmoon spied a haggard stranger apparently spreading powder around the room, his hood down and gaze upon his work. Her eyes narrowed, a slow careful breath escaping her as she pulled back from the corner, fingers flexing briefly on the hilt of her blade.
Jenessa took a breath and let herself relax, biding her time. It would not do to do anything rash after all, especially if the man was innocent. She palmed her blue orb, casting a surreptitious look at the crystal surface.
Rhys debates his options. There are still supplies to plunder, but his chances of running into opposition grow with every passing minute. He has but the single life, unlike undead. Only the foolish take chances.
He repacks his tools, returning his powderhorn to the back of his belt. From his handbag, heavy with plunder, he produces his striker. A quick motion throws sparks across the wooden counter, and orange washes across the dusty wood like water across a shoreline.
The fire burns hot, but will take a while to catch alight the lacquered floor and walls. He leaves the firebombs and the string connecting them untouched on the hardwood beneath the table, content to let them serve as a larger distraction after the huntsman has long since left, and the flames have spread on its own.
He must move quickly to avoid being caught in his own web. Rhys tightens the black cloth around his mouth and nose, as the air is already laden with smoke. Joints protest as he bends down to pick up the crossbow that has served as his companion through his expedition. His left hand brushes through the tails of the bolts at his hip, counting the remainder. A couple dozen.
There is a soft click as the string and fresh quarrel lock in place. The huntsman slinks towards the doorway, arbalest down but fingers dancing lightly along the trigger.