Griffith withdraws as abruptly as he'd bolted, leaving Guts to frown after his receding back, then take stock of a room he'd thought bereft of threat or contrivance. All the same, nothing stands out: a minor breeze from the balcony doors, where spring's starting to intrude unnotice. Soft shadows against drifting candles.

Nothing unusual. Nothing deranged.

Tossing his sword in its belt and scabbard on the seat beside him, he steps closer to Griffith, stopping until he occupies the better part of the man's horizon. There are no threats Guts' back can't withstand, no protection he won't supply.

So, then. "Talk."