Griffith had a very good reason for not participating in the rest of the conversation with the vaguely familiar girl with a horse—once several of the others had showed up, just as miraculously uninjured as he was, he chose to slip off into his tent to change his clothes.  Whatever course of action was next, he didn't want to be in a now-ruined shirt.  Or his unmentionables from the previous day—but let us not speak to much of that.  Indeed, he was mildly upset that the shirt was now ruined, but it was no great loss.  [i]It's better than bleeding to death.[/i]  But, again, that lead to the question of why he did not have a hideous scar on his arm, and why he hadn't bled to death overnight.

	He finished changing just as it was declared they would be leaving for home.  He was a little upset, but not entirely surprised.  In truth, he was still digesting the strange happenings of the prior night, and wasn't particularly suited to discussing them right now.  Nor did he suppose the others were.  [i]We wait, then.[/i]  He spent the time packing, and the ride back wrapped in thoughts of the attack—which didn't make any sense whatsoever.  

	He wasn't broken out of his distasteful reverie until after their return—by Ryan's question.  "Well," Griffith said, "it wouldn't look good if we changed our story, so anyone who tells anyone else what actually happened better be sure they'll keep mum.  Personally, I'd rather not spread it around until we have a grasp on what the actually happened."  After a moment, he added, "I only know two things for sure: We need to talk about this—amongst ourselves—and the town is going to flip a collective shit if we get seen walking around dressed like we've been mauled.  And besides, I don't think there'll be many people who'll believe we actually got mauled without some scars to back it up."