Rowan pretended to run away, but he didn't actually flee. He remembered that Sen was sprawled on the rocks, his wrists and one ankle severed, given emergency treatment by the orc with white powder.
He pulled out the leather covering his bow and arrows on his back. The inside was soaked with filtered waste oil. Of course, there wasn't a ton of it. Even waste oil like that was precious, so it was just enough to keep out moisture while not being too slippery to handle.
He took out his bow and arrows, the familiar weight settling into his hands like an old friend. Since they'd been treated with oil to keep moisture out, he had to wipe them down with a rag several times before they stuck properly to his hands. The oil left a sheen on his palms that he methodically removed, knowing that even the smallest slip could mean the difference between a clean kill and a warning shot that alerted enemies to his position.
