Ordhan's face remained stoic and his gaze even as the elf went on, still eating the apple. He didn't miss the way he looked him over, like an assassin sizing up his mark, or a butcher a fatted cow. The pouch at his belt held a few sovereigns, and the sword would be worth much more. Thankfully his treasured shield had needed repair and was in the hands of a smith, now replaced with a plain heater shield from Fort Drakon.
Blood was pounding louder in his ears as it rushed to his head. It was difficult to focus, especially with the fire lancing in his side. When the apple flew at his head, Ordhan jerked his head to the side; the apple struck his ear rather than his face, with enough force to make his head ring. The next few words were garbled.
The flash of metal near his eye made him flinch back; an unfortunate move, with the blade at his unarmored throat, and its edge snicked the underside of his jaw. A droplet of blood slithered down across his cheek to disappear into the hair at his temple. He wanted nothing more than to feel his metal-clad knuckles connecting with the grinning face near his, but Maker, he had been fast, and what use would it be to have his throat slit and be left to bleed out like a slaughtered pig? With thoughts of mingled curses and prayers, Ordhan released his arms and slowly offered his hands. By the Maker's grace the elf would be satisfied with mere theft.