[center][color=#ff8c00][h2]Cadmon Demet[/h2][/color][/center]
[hr][@Octo][@HereComesTheSnow]
[hr]

[color=#ff8c00]"I'm glad to make such a good friend as you, miss Lirrah,"[/color] Cadmon replied blandly as the diminutive merchant fluttered her eyelashes at him and did the best she could to squirm out of the disadvantageous position he had her in. As she handed over the vials to István, he set her to the ground, giving a small, formal bow. [color=#ff8c00]"We'll heed your warnings, of course. I'm sure my man here would rather test these on the enemy, not one of our own."[/color] As she scampered off to attend to whatever it was that the griffin rider was asking her about, he glanced back at Kayliss's rapidly retreating form.

Unfortunate. He didn't like having to simply trust that she'd make a point to release the horses before the camp was [i]completely[/i] surrounded, lest they put their own at risk of a trampling...but trust he would have to. At least winning one over on Lirrah had helped to raise his spirits a bit; trade was preferable to war any day, and as one of the lords entrusted to watch the borders of Velt, he'd had no choice but to become experienced in both, whether the tactics used were fair or underhanded—like holding an already-embarrassed Nem multiple feet off the ground and getting her to relinquish her goods for free. [color=#ff8c00]"Distribute those how you see fit, István. I don't know that I've the stomach to use them myself. I'm going to have Gawen gather up some of our best riders before things start—it'd be a shame to waste good Morahti horses."[/color]

[hr]

Sure enough, Kayliss and Falkner made sure to execute their stage of the plan while there was still an opening for the horses to retreat through. At the sight of panic and a trampled tent in the firelight of the camp, Cadmon knew that the four men he'd set with horses, lassos, and spears would take off after any that escaped their handlers and bring them under control using tricks they'd learned [i]from[/i] other eastern horsemen. Confident in those he'd set to the task, he charged ahead into the camp itself. Resistance was minimal at best—few of the Morahti were in a state to even lift their weapons, let alone actively fight, not that he had any qualms about ensuring they never would again.

He'd studied their language, of course. His father had made him learn at least some of it, learn who they were. Their March had seen the raiders come through, and wherever an outlying village declined to fight, their people were taken instead. Abominable in every respect, but at least those had the twisted honour only to take those who they supposedly [i]conquered,[/i] rather than engaging in simple trade like one might see at a cattle auction. It had been necessary to learn some of their language, to issue warnings and demands in a way that they couldn't pretend not to understand.

Not once had he known of any to be willing to offer themselves up. Knocked unconscious, forcibly taken prisoner, or the like, perhaps—but never willingly had he known of one to enter into the servitude they seemed to think was due to those who defeated them.

Gods and Goddesses willing, these would at least have pride enough to refuse the same.

He stepped out from between a pair of close-set tents, back into the firelight, to see a pair of the foreign mercenaries off to his left. One of the raiders seemed nearly catatonic; another, trying to rouse his comrade, futilely trying to encourage him to fight or run in the face of the giant coming their way. Neither had the chance; the mystically sharp blade of Cadmon's inherited weapon puncturing one's heart and severing the other's brainstem in a single downward thrust.

[color=#ff8c00]"Dramatics again, István?"[/color] he asked of his comrade, who had been bearing down on the hapless Morahti before Cadmon came behind them. [color=#ff8c00]"Sometimes I think you're trying to see if you can just [i]scare[/i] one to death."[/color]