Neither Bran nor Erik felt any remorse for the dead, only a cool indifference due to an inability to see them as nothing more than lifeless things. They weren't people anymore, they were just... corpses. Hunks of meat, really, with hearts that no longer beat and lungs that lay flat. He assumed that Lotte would have James for comfort if it bothered her, because sympathy of any sort was not something he was very good at feeling, never mind expressing.
He expected Lotte to stay back - she really wasn't very good at defending herself - but he didn't expect James to follow. His look was only quizzical for a moment before he ventured inside, adapting an almost panther-like stalk along the walls. Beneath the dusty silence there were low, confidential whispers; words spoken in French that he couldn't understand but Erik could. The inside was overthrown by shadows, but sunlight peeked in through the windows and allowed for some semblance of visibility. Peering around the corner, he saw two men curled up against the wall.
They're unarmed, Erik said triumphantly. It was much more than that - they had food and a bucket of water they seemed to be sharing. Well, they were going to end up sharing it with more than just each other. Boldly stepping into view, Bran pointed the knife at them. "I don't want to hurt you. We just need some food and water, alright?" They started at him, instantly hostile but without anything with which to defend themselves. Sighing, he repeated himself in French with Erik's help - but the words were clumsy and terribly pronounced.