Gunnar
"Thank you so much," the young lady concluded, mounting her beast and flying out of sight. Gunnar sat himself down on a log that was cut to make a seat, pulling a loaf of bread out of one of his pockets and taking a bite out of the end. It's been a while since he had fresh food.
"This guy's the rider causin' so much trouble? He don't even got a dragon, and if he does I sure as hell don't see it." One. He couldn't be older than Gunnar; must've been only twenty or something. He was too confident to be any older.
"Shut up; you're too loud. Plenty of us saw him riding one. On top of it, he's been helping other riders escape us." Two. This one sounded like he'd been through plenty in the few sentences he spoke. Maybe older.
"Well, long as his precious dragon ain't around I don't see why we can't kill him now!" With his shouting, the man leaped out from bushes nearby, brandishing a sword and running straight for Gunnar. His target placed the loaf back in his pocket, turned around along the log and slipped by the jab of his blade. Next thing he knew, Gunnar's hand was in his face and he was overloaded with electricity, the mixed feeling of cool steel on his forehead and warm fabric on his cheeks there and gone, replaced by searing heat and lightning coursing through his head. His face was burnt — disfigured — and he felt like his brain was exploding. Then he hit the ground below, dead before he could scream... before he could feel his severely weakened skull shattering on the stony walkway.
Gunnar stood straight and looked in the other man's direction, the left side of his face covered in jumping sparks; the latter was still in hiding, and the former didn't say a word. They both just knew that if he didn't stay there or run like hell, he'd die, too.
His face stopped flickering, and Gunnar returned to his small meal. As soon as he did, the assassin ran.