The moment came all too soon. I was building a fire at the end of a day's walk. One of them came up behind me, a man slightly older than I, thin and sallow, unkempt, unwashed dark hair. He was fond of knives, always flipping one in his hand in an calculated, absent-minded way. Huginn was leaning against a tree opposite me, watching surreptitiously. He caught my eye, glanced at the man behind me as a warning. Huginn had given me an arc stick and a few lessons in its use, and I kept it within easy reach at all times. I palmed it and mentally sent a trickle of impulse into it, just enough to make it buzz in my hands, a low, inaudible hum. I felt him behind me, approaching on what he apparently thought were silent feet. I shifted my weight, crouched before the fire I had been building. I turned just slightly, enough so I could now see him out of the corner of my eye, and I caught a glimpse of glinting silver, a long curved, wickedly-sharp knife, his favorite, one I'd seen him use all too often on hapless prey just before Isis drained them.
A sound brings me back to the present: a whimper, a shriek, scuffed steps slipping in the snow. I pass an alley and pause at the mouth. I see a figure at the end, a small female silhouette wearing a cloak, cornered at the end of the blind alley, four hulking male figures facing her in an inescapable line. The girl has an arc stick in her hand, waving back and forth, trying to ward off all four at the same time. One of the men feints, she cries out, jabs at him with the arc stick, misses, he yanks it from her grasp, chuckling, jabs her in the side with it. She contorts away from the tip, a scream juddering from her throat that shivers the snowflakes as they fall. She's a sonic, I'd guess, but she probably doesn't know it, or she'd be ripping them apart with sonic blasts.