It wasn't as if she was unaware.

The Morahti were a proud culture. One that disdained weakness. But it wasn't physical weakness that they disdained. Velvetica had heard of those who were physically frail but strong of will becoming powerful leaders of Morahti clans.

Surrender, to the Morahti, was a sign of those with weak will. Of forfeit. That you would rather go on living then fight your hardest to the bitter end. Velvetica was no stranger to pride, of course. If it were her personal choice, surrender would never be permitted. But consideration to those under her had to be taken into account.

Not that there would ever be cause for surrender under her, as far as she was concerned.

In any case, she was well aware that no self-respecting Morahti would ever surrender. When she made her commands, she was perfectly aware that she had ordered the mercenaries' extermination.

She had no special hatred for the Morahti. While their slave-taking actions were an abomination to the goddesses, she did not believe them to be an inherently wicked people. Merely one that had lost their way long ago.

But these mercenaries had engaged in taking slaves, purchasing people, on Veltan soil. Taking slaves in inter-clan warfare was bad enough, but to ignore the law of the land and engage in slavery even here...

No mercy could be permitted. Not for a sick Veltan noble who thought himself above judgement. Not for a foreigner whose culture did not yet grasp slavery's wickedness.

They were all judged just the same.

Starshine's edge flashed, parting a mercenary's throat. In the very next motion, she lodged the blade into the armpit of the nearest warrior, without pausing for an instant.

She caught a curved blade on the edge of her blade and guided it away, the upswing cutting her target's throat.

The Lion of Hraesleg was a symbol of justice. Of Velt's law. Of Velt's defense.

Those who did not care for that justice, for those laws, would face its fangs.

Once the camp was cleared, they would move to free the prisoners.

The Morahti, as was expected, were not breaking down and fleeing in the face of this chaos and the loss of their greatest asset. When they realized there was little time to attempt to calm the horses, they were quite quick to try and assemble a defense, drawing their curved swords and spears, others staying further back and nocking arrows.

"Archers!" called Velvetica, over the din of combat, "Keep moving! Their range is limited, but potent!"

Indeed, Morahti shortbows were not known for their range, but they were still dangerous. Morahti archers on horseback could perform swift hit and run attacks. Deprived of their horses, however, they were far less hazardous.

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