"Sorry to hear all that, miss," Rothyr said, not leaving his spot in the wall. In reality, he was beginning to become worried. The young girl seemed to be raving like a lunatic. Normally, those are the ones who kill people. Rothyr, come to find out, was people, and he didn't feel like becoming some insane-person's first or however-so-many victim. He began to stoop, reaching for his knife to put his hand on the handle lest he need it in self-defense.
He wasn't trying to be mean, but the situation played out like a murder by a serial killer might. Some kind of initial contact to mark a target, check. Trail target till isolated, check. Approach target and begin slaughterfest, in progress.
He had to think quickly. He wasn't from around there, if this resulted in bloodshed he might die, but being a gifted fighter as he was he might win, considering the size advantage and being in close quarters. If he won, her blood would be on his hands, and she was at least from around there and recognizable. Rothyr would be convicted of murder, and likely tossed off the side of the mountain to feed the birds.
"Sounds like quite a plight," Rothyr said, tracing the handle of his knife with his fingers, "Have you considered a life on the road?" He tried his best to make the idea sound like a good one. It was wrought with danger, and oftentimes boring since he hadn't taught Windlass to speak common yet. He was miles away from achieving that goal.
"I myself, am a traveler, and I've had no troubles finding friends the places I go. This place has struck me as superficial, truth be told. There's places that don't care much for lineage."
He stroked his chin, preparing to make a point, "Syliras, I seen people from all over Mizahar there. All sorts of folks, all kinds of races. I bet you'd like it there... What was your name?"