As their now-even-stranger group progressed to the bandit camp, Airthel answered the elf's question on a hushed breath, "The Creators bring me many strange places." His obscure comment and their arrival at the camp cut off further communication. Peering forward through foliage and bated companions, he could see the camp and a few prowling figures ahead. He counted five, but he figured there were more beyond his limited sight. He drew his bow, similar to that of the Dalish group's own weapons, and tested the pull of the sinew string. As the patrol's leader drew a dark tipped arrow, Airthel tried to place the description, but it was too common an effect and too broad a description. Not that it mattered much either way. Airthel pulled an arrow from the quiver on his back, knocked it,and nodded. Seeing the Dalish patrol spread out, he followed their line until the five archers would be able to cover a majority of the complex once they emerged. 

He waited patiently as the others readied themselves, eyeing down his drawn arrow at a few of the indistinct figures he could see, trying to figure where the best place to start would be. As the moments wore on and a signal told of the group's preparedness, Airthel moved forward with the other Dalish who let fly on the bandit camp. He took a bead on a rival archer, who still looked startled at the sudden ambush, and loosed his arrow and watched as it embedded into the man's lightly armored shoulder. Airthel was drawing another arrow as the man down his sights ripped the arrow, which had most likely done little damage, out of his armor.