And, at least for the moment, it looks like there won't be any more bloodshed beyond that which is still dripping from Tuo's nose.

He spits a last mouthful of it out onto the snow and wipes the rest off with one hand, straightens up slowly, and ensures that when he meets the venomous glares the soldiers fling his way, he does so with his chin raised and his eyes hard. (If he was afraid of a beating, he would be less discreet.) The unambiguous leader of the soldiers, evidently unwilling to risk riling a Shepherd--he's heard the stories--grits his teeth and turns to help shoulder the weight of his injured comrade.

It isn't until the soldiers have put a substantial enough distance between themselves and the glade that Tuo exhales, eyes closing, and presses one sleeve against his injuries. "I suppose that could have done worse," he remarks with staggering aplomb, but already he is gingerly making his way over to the steps of his wagon. "I think I shall sit down for a moment, if you don't mind."