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Roman
A steady stream of curses flowed out of Roman's mouth as he kicked pebbles and twigs out of his way, hands balled into fists. He was caught between terror, sadness, shock, and anger. He'd settled on anger-he found it more productive. They could've at least left him his daggers-they'd taken all of his weapons, even the little knife he'd hidden in his boot-everything was gone. He had no way to defend himself. Damn them. Damn them all-the scabs on his lip and his crusted over black eye oozed and throbbed, and despite the pain it gave him a smug sense of satisfaction-at least he hadn't gone down without a fight. And he wouldn't go down without a fight now-he'd lasted four hours in these woods-he'd last four hours more. Blasted naga be damned.