The lively stride of the big workhorse Marcus is riding clatters through the peace. His focus is keenly forward—enough not to mark the flight of a hawk, but he does catch the disappearance of a hand. His own hands stay on the reins, but the angled blade of the iron-edged staff lashed across his back is well in view.

Rather than halt at some polite conversational range, Marcus spurs his horse on, angling off to move past Richard, road dust raised in the clamour. Several feet behind, he hauls on the reins to both stop and pivot his mount. Surrounding him, inasmuch as three people can, when one is taking his time bringing up the rear.

Richard has no basis of comparison as to Marcus now and the unsteady, bruised-over version of himself climbing out of a prisoner transport weeks back. He is much healed since then, but there's still a hard-edged, latently hostile quality to the scrape of his evaluation of the rifter-healer on his horse that was honed at that time.

"What happened?" is quiet, temper more like a hand on a hilt rather than wielded.