Helena looks to a severely cracked rock, just teetering in place. Barely keeping its place, and though she could shoot him with the arrow, that seems wasteful. Nature has provided solution, yes?

She watches as he begins to move, peering curiously over the edge, head tilted as she tries to make an estimate of the timing, how quick he's going, and a shove—

there's a bursting sound from below, and when she takes a second look Helena spots a bloody, mangled smear across the ground. He appears intact from the neck down, but whatever is left of his head is underneath the jagged portion of rock she'd sent tumbling down. Her mouth hooks into a smile, grimly pleased with her timing.

"He is not very good at job," she concludes, with a shrug to the others. Unlike us goes unsaid.