He flicked his blade, spattering the churned mud with blood. The sun was setting and the birdcalls had become loud and insistent, lonely souls seeking solace before the coming night. He wiped his brow and a spray of dried mud showered the ground. He roughly ran a hand through his unkempt brown hair; more dirt, some of it ruddy.
The day's last breath, a whispering wind, shifted the leaves on their branches. Covered in sweat, the breeze chilled him and he shivered. Putting his sword back in its scabbard, he walked away from the body toward his travel bags. The short, heavy chain running between the iron bands around each of his ankles rattled like a soothsayer's bones. He chuckled to himself. This rattlesnake warns you too late.
He grabbed his only possessions, such as they were, and headed back to the road. The mind wanders in times like these and now his mind wandered to a thought that perhaps he had overreacted.
A few steps later, he was wondering what he could find to eat.