[They are two immovable objects. His hand tightens on Areadbhar, as though an impulse away from throwing it the distance between him and one of the men—but he schools it through an effort of will. Perhaps it is his first wrong move among many he will make soon. It doesn't matter. What Sylvain's asking is not mercy, but strategy, or so he believes. Letting anyone leave this place alive is foolish. Even if he has a hostage, he knows the Empire's cruelty; they will swarm like rats to the Monastery.

Then again, if that should occur, it will draw his enemies straight to him.

Stepping forward, Dimitri moves fearlessly into the space close to Sylvain, ignoring the weapons that tilt in his direction as if awaiting a delayed command. Lance lowered in signal of his commitment, he reaches out and seizes the reins of Sylvain's horse.]

Fine. Drop your weapon. [A service for his past loves. Should he count himself among them? No sooner has the thought arrived and he's cast it bitterly aside. No, of course not.] Let them run back with their tails between their legs to live another day. I'll hunt them down later, if I must.

[If Sylvain has obediently disarmed, he will pull on the horse and begin to guide it away, mounted General and all.]