There's a sound peculiar to the plucked bowstring, to the sound of a projectile cutting through the air. Arthur's heard it so often that he's moving before the ramifications even register in his conscious mind, a sharp sidestep away from the tree in question. Not necessary, given how wide of his head the arrow lands, but without the instinct he'd have been dead several times over before ever being drafted into this war.

Thankfully for everyone involved, the step moves him away from the trap and not actually onto it. #SmallBlessings.

He frowns at the arrow, straightens warily and draws his sword. There's one culprit that can be ruled out easily enough: Cetagandans much prefer their alien technology to likes of bows and arrows.

"Show yourself," he orders -- well, in the direction one can assume the arrow came from, voice pitched to carry (and, unintentionally, probably scare off any squirrels in the vicinity sorry about your hunting trip, Daryl).