"It'd be for us, Shortclaw prefers it raw," Roger clarified to the elf. "He shares his meals with me, you see, so what he eats, I've learned to eat." Not everyone was entirely comfortable with horses being used as meat due to their most familiar role as riding animals, but Roger saw it no differently than eating cattle. They were the natural part of a griffin's diet, after all.

Of course, the dietary needs and digestive capabilities of humans were a bit different from griffins, so it had always been necessary for Roger to learn new ways to prepare his portion of their shared meals and mix them in with other foods. In particular, he had taken an interest in adapting the noble cuisine recipes from his mother's side of the family for use with horse flesh. Between Lirrah and the Morathi, all of the ingredients needed to try it out were within reach.

The journey back to the camp took a lot longer on foot than it would have by flying, but this mission required both careful coordination with the other Lions as well some degree of stealth and subtlety. The duo set perched atop a hill where they could get a clear view of the horse enclosure and await Kayliss' sabotage. For several minutes that felt much longer for the anticipation-filled knight, he waited and watched. Trying to spot Kayliss out there was quite futile, but he kept a close watch on both the gate and the camp. If anything went wrong with her infiltration (as unlikely as that was) he should at least be able to perceive the resulting ruckus.

Finally, the gate swung open, with a figure that was assuredly Kayliss rising into view in front of it. The time had come to do their part. Roger signaled Shortclaw, and the griffin complied, leaping from the hill and taking flight. They flew low over the camp, and with another signal from Roger to specify their target, Shortclaw dove down upon an unfortunate Morathi horse. The griffin forced the horse to the ground before it could flee, gripping it with his talons and chomping down on its spine behind its head with his curved beak. For all of the combat techniques that Roger's father had taught Shortclaw, this killing blow was almost purely instinctual.

If this didn't send the rest of the horses into a mad panic, nothing would.

@VitaVitaAR@Octo@Psyker Landshark@Conscripts@Raineh Daze@Eisenhorn@The Otter

Morahti warhorses had a reputation.

They were known for their strength and speed. Their steadfast demeanor meaning not even the most ferocious of battles would cause them to panic and throw their rider to the ground. Even in moments of great terror, it was said that a Morahti warhorse would never turn and flee.

All of this meant nothing in the face of one of their natural predators.

With the griffin's attack, and their release, the horses let out a cacophany of fearful whinnies and frantically fled, training temporarily falling apart in the face of panic. One of the smaller tents was immediately trampled, and the merrymaking mercenaries were suddenly in a state of panic themselves, shouting to one another in their own language as they tried to figure out what had happened.

Starshine sang as it left its sheath, held aloft.

"Find the prisoners and secure them. Spare those who surrender! Show no mercy to those who do not! Lions, advance!"

Velvetica's voice was carried in the cool night air.

They could not afford to have archers soften the camp up. Not when they knew that there were prisoners who could be caught in the crossfire.

But the chaos caused by the panicking horses would serve a similar purpose. The Morahti mercenaries were in an unprepared state, many of them scrambling to seize their weapons and form some kind of defense. Most did not even have their bows at the ready. Others attempted to calm the horses, trying to wrest their greatest advantage back under their control.

They hadn't expected any sort of assault.

That, Velvetica was certain, would be their fatal mistake.

The attack had begun.

@Raineh Daze@Psyker Landshark@The Otter@VKAllen@Eisenhorn@Crimson Paladin@Conscripts@HereComesTheSnow@Octo@PigeonOfAstora

Urden flexed his grip slowly on the axe, watching as first the horses were turned loose and, secondly, the griffon came down and sent them panicking into the night. Couldn't really blame the beasts, even among men seeing such a beast come hurtling down from above would send most fleeing in a panic. The chaos trampled a tent already, though given the lack of screaming indicated there hadn't been prisoners in there, after all, most folks would panic when the structure of a holding area came down on them. Especially when it was from stampeding horses, and the flashing gleam of that fancy magic sword that Boss wielded, alongside the orders. Find the prisoners, butcher those too stupid to throw down their arms, and let those who yield live. Some days he wouldn't mind Boss being a bit more harsh towards certain folks, but he wasn't paid to offer advice right now, oh no, right now it was quite simple what to do.

"This time I get to be doing the ambushing, hell of a busy night." The mercenary launched off from his hidden position, aiming his charge towards the nearest Morahti mercenary, not bothering with war cries or any real warning for the Morahti who were currently reeling from the sudden loosing of their horses, and utter lack of any idea what was happening. Urden would be aiming to kill as many as he could before they got their wits about them, aiming axe strikes for vitals. Be it instant, like the head, or taking out deep enough gouges in the torso that they couldn't readily keep fighting. Any of the Morahti that moved to surrender would be bypassed, as easy as it would be to just swing and feign ignorance later, but he planned to maximize the advantage of the assault before the enemy could organize themselves.

Ironically enough, it was somewhat easier to hide in the chaos of pitched battle. People rushed straight towards obvious threats instead of jumping at shadows, and the noise covered up any missteps that could be made. Still, Kayliss did her part here and there. As the Morathi began to try to meet the ambush head-on, Kayliss reached out from around tents and behind cover, picking off stragglers in the rear with quick cuts to the throat from behind.

As the remainder of the Lions began to breach the camp, Kayliss stuck to the shadows, now looking for the prisoners in earnest. One tent, nothing. Another, a slumbering foreigner too drunk to be woken by even this clamour. She jammed a blade into his windpipe. As she emerged from that tent, Kayliss noticed Urden in the midst of cleaving through the Morathi. One managed to retain enough presence of mind to try to flank the former mercenary, and Kayliss quickly ambushed him from behind, dragging him into the shadows where she finished him with a quick neck snap.

That done, she briefly popped her head out from behind cover, raising her voice as Urden finished off the last of the Morathi in their immediate surroundings.

"I've not located the prisoners yet. Try another section of tents. And watch your flank next time."

Her piece said, she slinked back into the cover of darkness and continued her search.

@Eisenhorn

The clamoring of the world's animals in the face of Mayon, and her silvered, gentle grace was nothing new, all told. Many beasts of certain nobility called into the night— owls, intelligent and dignified, or the noble and loyal wolves, for instance, cast their voices into the night regularly at little more than a stone's throw from the reach of human civilization. The act itself was not debased, yet...

A bubbling hiss rose from the corpse of the slaver at his feet, who had been woken from a drunken stupor by his second and third ribs crumpling. Before he could reach for a blade, Istvan's most recent patronage of the Company Merchant had found a new home, splashed across his brow, and even through the haze of alcohol, a beaten dog could scream as loud as any creature of the night. The language was garbled through pain. A falling Meteor silenced it in short order, as the tower of black iron turned his gaze to the disarray ahead.

In Morahti tongues, "surrender" was not a word worth learning. It meant willfully giving yourself to their particular arm of conquest, to conscription as a slave, to theft of all your property. Death, by any measure, would have been preferable, even with allowance for some supposed cultural understanding of "fair play" on the end of the speaker. The young Earl and he had long been given cause to familiarize themselves with the vulgar language of these raiders— supposedly, such a term did exist for them...

Another, collapsed to his knees, ahead, gaze worlds away in shock. Behind him, a third warrior, this one with wits about him rushing to protect his fellow from the oncoming storm of the Lions— doubtlessly seeking to rouse the former into fighting shape.

"Surrender" wouldn't leave their lips, surely.

Not in any language Shilage had heard.

His march continued.

---

@Octo@HereComesTheSnow

---

"I'm glad to make such a good friend as you, miss Lirrah," 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. "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." 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 completely 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. "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."

---

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 from 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 conquered, 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.

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

Their attack was successful- the griffin's attack caused the horses to panic and flee. The horse beneath them wasn't nearly so lucky, its spine having been cleanly bitten through. Roger didn't pay too much attention to the dead horse, though- he was much more concerned with everything going around them.

The attack on the horse pen had been the signal for the rest of the Lions to attack. The others rushed in, cutting down any of the mercenaries in their way. With the Morathi caught as unprepared as they were, and without their mounts, they were quickly proving to be easy prey for Velvetica's forces.

Shortclaw raised his head from the dispatched horse, his beak dripping with equine viscera. The griffin placed its front talons on the horse pen to prop itself up, and seemingly scanned the area, glancing over everything going on around them. Despite the presence of plenty of Morathi around them, the griffin did not instinctually move to attack them, nor did Roger command or try to compel him to do so. Instead, they stayed put, looking around, staying vigilant in case an actual threat appeared, or in case they heard the sound of a Lion that needed help.

Roger was fairly sure that his mount was greatly enjoying this. The immensely proud beast got a kick out of seeing humans fleeing before him, especially those designated as enemies. The Falkners in fact considered it an essential lesson in training a griffin to ensure that they view fleeing, panicking, or surrendering humans as food for their massive ego rather than for their stomach. Otherwise, disaster could strike if the wrong person became frightened at the wrong time.

They weren't just doing this for fun, through. The two of them were keeping watch in case any of the mercenaries managed to regroup and begin to fight back. In the frenzy of a fight, especially one that was going well, it was all too easy to get caught up in the moment and get caught off-guard when a new threat emerges or something goes wrong. If something like that were to happen here, the griffin and rider would be ready to spring into action.

Lirrah was left with only that doll, a small contingent of Lions, and her thoughts. When she sent a few strapping young men off to retrieve some spices, it was mostly Anisette and her thoughts. Lirrah found a large rock to set the doll down on, and took a seat at its side, observing her.

"...Your mother is terrifying," Lirrah murmured, retrieving a pumice stone from her backpack. She began filing her nails, which had been woefully grated during her agonized ground-clawing. She put time into her appearance every day, and her nails were due for a bit of maintenance soon anyways. The polish had been chipped, so she'd have to re-apply that as well.

"Very good taste, though. I appreciate all the time and effort it took to get that pody just right. Those clothes... all of it. You have a rather pretty appearance, as well. I like your dress. Well... I can make doll clothes myself, so if you have any requests for outfits, I wouldn't mind making you a wardrobe."

Lirrah blew on her nails, and buffed them with a cloth. Next, she got out her polish.

"I wonder why she chose dolls as her focus... do you know? It's lovely, how pristine they are with proper maintenance. I never had my own. Just hand-me-downs. Clothes, toys... affection. Second-hand. Used goods. Who would pay for garpage like that?"

Lirrah carefully applied the polish. She had time, and it wasn't like there was anything else she could do. Useless merchant. Can't even get a good sale on acid through the cost of her humiliation.

Amidst the chaos and clamour of the ambush, Gisela stood as a little island of calm. Not that this was too hard--her magic didn't contribute much to a rescue operation until the fighting was over and a medic was needed. Nor could she be said to be in enough danger to warrant concern.

The ring of faintly silvery light surrounding her made the safety rather obvious. Of course, completely enclosed by a barrier like this, she wasn't in the slightest able to contribute... which was, again, expected. And if someone got through and started attacking it, the Lions would probably kill them before it cracked, so why not simply stand here and maintain it?

Maybe she could go find some dying enemies and save them? It wouldn't be too hard to take someone prisoner when they were only somewhat injured rather than on the brink of death. It would be nice to have fewer bodies to dispose of afterwards, too. Hm, but how would the knights take that, it could be seen as undoing all of their hard work, if not outright treacherous... what a hard choice this was.

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.

@Raineh Daze@Psyker Landshark@The Otter@VKAllen@Eisenhorn@Crimson Paladin@Conscripts@HereComesTheSnow@Octo@PigeonOfAstora

"That's a drink owed to you then, Spooky. Several tents down, plenty to go!"

Urden had been wrenching his axe out of the rib cage of one of the now dead enemy mercenaries, having been focused on butchering his way through as many of them as he could, when he spotted the one flanking him get jerked backwards into the shadows. Probably wishes he had just taken an axe to the face and had an honest death, but the Lion's mercenary wasn't going to go looking a gift assassination in the mouth in this case. Rather, he started moving towards the next of the Morahti in reach, catching the curved blade's strike on his axe haft, turning it away and smashing the slaver's jaw sideways with the butt end of his axe. Whether he attempted to say anything or not was irrelevant, talking with a broken jaw was a bitch, and a heavy handed upwards swing decapitated the Morahti. At this rate, as the other Lions involved in the combat kept getting stuck in, they would be through the enemies in no time.

Sure enough, as Boss shouted out about the archers did one of the arrows find a home in his thigh, failing to come out the other side but being firmly embedded in his leg now. A hiss of pain, but more importantly, now he was pissed. Mending clothing was expensive, and arrow holes meant needing mending. Yeah, and his leg was injured now as well, but what was one more scar? He knew better than to rip it loose, instead launching himself forward with aggressive swings, aiming to smash aside spears and create openings for the converging allies to make moves on the archers, as his own ability to move was at least hobbled, though he wasn't immobile, not by a long shot. Maybe he'd invest in some light armor, something to cover the meaty bits to deflect projectiles without slowing him down. Maybe, that was for later, for now, he focused on doing his part in putting the defense on the backfoot and keeping it from forming properly, and make them pay in blood for the tailoring he was going to have to pay for now.

@Psyker Landshark

@The Otter

"The thought occurred to me, once or twice," came the mirthful yet muffled grindstone timbre, as the hulk's advance paused to see his neck crane beneath the greathelm, tilting ears high, eyes high. Beneath the clamor of both forces' cries of war, the symphony of steel and flame, there was... thrumming. Twanging. This skirmish was an orchestra of percussion, voice, and brass— not haggard strings. Irian's bow sang a deeper chord, one melding with the dull roar. These were stark, acrid, and rushed. Assembling to a time, not yet to a tune.

"But to stop a heart without making good on the fear struck as... merciful."

He spat the word, as the dull earthen disks within the shadowed visor honed in on a fallen array of stars, points of caught firelight in the smoke. He raised the castle gate on his left arm as he stepped forth, two, three, and four impacts biting into the metal and wood. Not preternaturally accurate in their haste to mount a proper check to the sudden offensive, not mobile enough to vanish like ghosts in the wake of their scattered steeds...

"Swiftly now. They rally." he grunted, affirmed by the little Princess's sharp calls from the direction of the scattershot arrows.

The boy was schooled as well as he— hell, even the merchant likely knew well enough not to leave coordinated archers to their devices.

He pushed forth beneath the barrier of his shield, ears, and eyes, obscuring as much movement between the encampment's tents as a big man was ever able. Morahti were little more than amoral raiding folk on their best day, but their mettle would surely exceed those of lowly thugs. They would assemble what structure they could from within the chaos— but the raid wouldn't leave them much room to breathe and adapt beyond basic formations, their skirmishers tying up the front while the better archers among them either softened things or picked off strays from the rear.

Swinging around and pressing them from the other side was a natural progression of things— a moment to seize with the tempo, before their enemies could find their feet underneath it. Splitting their attention would halve their potency, leaving either edge of the Lions free to mop up.

Her search was interrupted by the shifting tides of the battlefield. Evidently, the Morahti were still disciplined enough to try and rally instead of breaking. Inconvenient. Still, the change in priorities was obvious. The prisoners could wait. A stray arrow might actually kill someone important. Plus, Kayliss had never been given a direct order to prioritize either. That meant it was solely up to her judgement. A disconcerting thought, but not something to dwell on at the moment. There was still work to do.

Kayliss crept her way over towards the largest concentration of archers, keeping to the shadows. As before, the chaos of the raid kept her hidden enough for the moment, and she made her way over with little trouble, avoiding the skirmishers for the moment. Stopping to kill everyone in her way would have exposed her to the more important target. Once she was in range, Kayliss crept down behind some fallen debris before making her move.

She lit the fuse on a small bomb and lobbed it over cover, where the flash powder within detonated as it landed in sight of the archers, blinding enough of them for her to get to work. Kayliss vaulted over the debris, blades drawn, and started mercilessly tearing into the temporarily-blinded men, going for quick, efficient kills. The deblitating effect of the flash bomb didn't last too long, and she'd be exposed in the midst of a pack of enemies if she tarried.

These foreign mercenaries weren't breaking. It was chaos, but they weren't retreating or surrendering. They had lost the battle from the start, but they didn't care- they were going to fight to the finish.The knight recalled what he had heard- that these Morathi were slavers who looked down on anyone who surrendered. Assuming they weren't hypocrites, they'd fight to the death rather than commit an act of shame that they believed warranted enslavement. One cluster of Morathi in particular could be seen massing- both swordsmen and archers.

Very well, we can do it like that, he mused as he looked about from his saddle, signaling to his mount to target the clustered enemies.

Shortclaw had been taught to recognize the danger that an archer could present to even an apex predator. The beast's response to the command was to circle around a tent, keeping low to the ground and out of the archers' field of view. Roger was little more than a passenger at this point, but such was the nature of their partnership- the rider designated enemies to attack or places to go, and the griffin would take charge of getting there.

Just before they came back into view of the archers, a bright light briefly illuminated the ground, coming from near the clustered enemies. Either their Hundi mage had just incinerated them, or someone had just detonated one of Lirrah's alchemical concoctions. As they crept into view from around the tent, Roger saw that neither of those presumptions were correct- it had been one of Kayliss' bombs, and it looked like the rogue was taking advantage of their disorientation to kill as many as she could.

She could use some help.

Shortclaw pounced, coming down on top of one the archers, then gave a cry and beat his wings to unbalance the rest of them. The griffin clearly wanted to be noticed.

@Psyker Landshark

Starshine's tip found its mark.

The Morahti captain had refused to surrender even as all his fellows were slain. Indeed, it was just as Velvetica had expected.

His strength and skill were not enough to prevent what followed.

Slowly, the sword was pulled from his chest, and his legs weakened. And yet, there was no anger in his expression.

Perhaps it was because he at least felt he had died fighting a strong opponent.

Regardless, the man fell moments later.

Were it not for their culture's embrace of slavery, Velvetica would have gladly accepted Morahti into her ranks. It didn't matter to her where someone came from, after all. As long as their intentions were genuine.

But until a day came when the Morahti renounced their culture's belief in slavery, she could not accept such things.

Not a single one of the mercenaries remained standing. They had fought to the last.

The prisoners were located swiftly. Not a single one of them was particularly harmed, for at least Morahti believed that imprisoned slaves were valuable even if they no longer believed they had rights.

It seemed they largely hailed from local villages. It would not take much time to return them.

While the situation was more involved then it had initially seemed, they had still completed their duty.

The Hraeslag Lions could rest, for a time.

---

Castle Hraeslag.

It was an impressive building, constructed by Velvetica's ancestors a few generations ago. Its red-grey stone walls stood tall and imposing, built to last even against the forces of a mighty army. It boasted an expansive courtyard within, for the purposes of training but also for the sake of recreation. The castle grounds had many gardens alongside the defensive measures taken to make it as impenetrable as possible.

It was the home of Velvetica's mother, father, and older brother, all of whom she was eager to see.

As for the Lions, they were free to go about their business for the moment.

@Raineh Daze@Psyker Landshark@The Otter@VKAllen@Eisenhorn@Crimson Paladin@Conscripts@HereComesTheSnow@Octo@PigeonOfAstora

Urden was busy hacking through enemy ranks, when abruptly he ran out of Morahti to continue assaulting. Pausing, he saw Boss pulling her fancy sword from the leader of the slaver mercenary's chest and the stragglers getting picked off and routed. Sounds of the prisoners being freed was also quickly apparent, and it was about this time that his injury caught up with him, adrenaline wearing thin enough to let the pain back through, and he immediately took a significant chunk of weight off his leg that still had an arrow sticking in it. Right, yes, injuries, he should probably get those tended to before they moved too far on. Which meant, after a quick glance around, he spotted the resident Hundi mage and began limping his way over to her in relatively short order. Fortunately, looking for the glowing ring wasn't too much trouble at all. Continuing his limp, by necessity, he raised an arm in greeting, the other carrying his now thoroughly bloodied axe that would need cleaned later.

"Well, now that fun little diversion is over, mind if I borrow you for a few minutes? One of the bastards got lucky."

@Raineh Daze

---

Urden's leg still ached like hell. That probably wasn't normal, given what was done to mend his leg, which meant he had another reason to track down the Hundi again. Speaking of tracking, that Lirrah also needed talking to as well, word was she could do mending, and better to keep the local merchant on his good side by tossing work her way when reasonable. He had other shopping to do as well, next chance they got, but nothing worth having specially shipped, with a specially adjusted price to go with it. He had put the damaged trousers through some hand washing, he'd gotten the blood and such out, but the hole was blatant and beyond his limited ability to stitch back together. Gathering the damaged clothing into a neat bundle, and making sure he had his coin purse with him, he began moving out, looking for either Lirrah or the Hundi, whichever he ran into first.

@Octo

---

@HereComesTheSnow@Crimson Paladin

---

Sorting out the villagers was fast, sorting out the supplies that the bandits and their Morahti allies had pillaged from the local villages was a longer, more annoying process—even in the face of a rescue, there were always a few who would strive towards any sort of material gain they could wring out of their situation and benefactors. Thankfully, their fellows were disinclined to let them sour the moods of their saviours so rapidly, but none of them could simply drag the raided goods back home through the dirt or carry them on their backs—so it fell to Cadmon to divvy out men and animals for the transport, before they could rejoin the main column and their advance back towards Castle Hraesleg reach full speed.

At least he was glad to be back at the castle, dissimilar as it may have been from his home. Proximity to Lord Hraesleg meant an opportunity to figure out just why he'd been sent to accompany Velvetica, rather than accompany the man himself or her elder brother. It also meant a proper bed, more interesting food, and—

"Ah. Right on time." Peering up near the tallest tower of the castle, he could see the unmistakable outline of a griffin coming to its roost. "Care to join me in my suite, István? It seems Sir Falkner's back, and I doubt he's come empty handed. He should have news of home, and I've no doubt you'll want to review it with me."

The Morathi had fought hard and fought to the last man, but they with the element of surprise on the Lions' side, and the loss of their mounts, they lost this battle before it had begun. It didn't take long for the Lions to find and rescue the prisoners. With everything they could do having been done, Shortclaw returned to the horse pen and began to feed on the fallen horse. Roger was unsure what'd happen to the others, whether they'd be gathered up as spoils of war or left alone to form a feral herd. While he had less reverence for horses than most nobles, he acknowledged their usefulness, and a pack of trained war horses could be quite valuable.

As his mount tore into the carcass, Roger dismounted and began to assess where to take his cut. He'd have only a short window to prepare it before rigor mortis set in...

---

Shortclaw slowed his descent and gently touched down upon the watchtower. Roger dismounted a bit more cautiously than usual due to the relatively small size and considerable height of the griffin's makeshift roost- the last thing he wanted was to accidentally fall off the edge. The griffin immediately settled in for a nap, while Roger untied and unlatched a box from the saddle. He was lucky that Shortclaw hadn't decided to nap directly on top of the trapdoor this time, he thought as he began to climb down.

He had to be careful when going down the ladder with the box. It'd have been a lot easier if Shortclaw would've landed anywhere but the watchtower, but the griffin loved his high places.

Cadmon had requested news from his border fief, and as the Lions' Griffin Rider, Roger had been asked to convey the message and return with the reply. Ordinarily the business of ferrying small messages would be beneath the duo, but as a border lord, whatever news might come from Cadmon's lands was very relevant to the kingdom and to the Lions. Additionally, he hadn't just been sent for a message- he had also been tasked with retrieving Cadmon's pet Least Griffin. Perhaps the young lord wanted to participate in some falconry, or perhaps he simply missed the company of his pet. It wasn't unheard of for the Falkners to keep Least Griffins, even if they didn't typically train or breed them.

The griffin rider climbed down the tower, boxed passenger in tow. He made his way through the castle to where Cadmon's rooms were, and knocked on the door. If the young Earl wasn't here, Roger would head to the courtyard next.

"Are you there? It's Roger, I'm back with the news you requested. And your pet." As he spoke this, Roger pulled a sealed envelope out from within his armor.

@The Otter@VitaVitaAR

The next time Istvan took his coffee break in the kitchens, Kayliss was there, emerging from seemingly out of nowhere as she sidled up next to him, one hand falling down to rest next to his stash of whole coffee beans.

"Sir Istvan," Kayliss said in her usual emotionless deadpan, staring right at him. "I'd like to discuss your choice of...conversational topics with others."

There hadn't been time or opportunity to confront Istvan over this while they were still out on campaign, but she was still rather miffed that he so freely gave away her status as a Crownsblade in front of unfamiliar figures.

"My former status relied somewhat on word of mouth to keep certain ambitious elements in line." Read: the Crownsblades were made known to the Veltan nobility in order to intimidate them into not getting ambitions beyond their station. "That being said, allowing the identity of such an agent to leak invites investigations and reprisal. In the interest of my effectiveness as such, it would behoove you to not freely speak of my identity to others. Are we clear?"

Her hand hovered briefly over the container containing Istvan's beans before withdrawing as Kayliss did, stepping back. A clear threat if there ever was one.

@HereComesTheSnow

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@Crimson Paladin

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Perhaps unsurprisingly, István had declined to accompany Cadmon right away, and instead elected to go for the kitchens; with a shrug, Cadmon parted ways with his brutish retainer, rapidly returning to his suite so as not to leave the griffin-riding knight waiting. Beyond that, there were still certain matters to sort out after the last excursion—what to do with the horses his men had captured being one of them. Unlike their riders, Morahti horses were valuable and worth keeping, but that still left divvying out suitable mounts to suitable people, quartering them, what to do with the other horses in the meantime, and the like. An increase in work load that Cadmon only had himself to blame for, given that the horses were captured on his orders.

He hadn't been long perusing the information given him on the captured beasts before a knock came at the entrance to his suite, however. With a glance and a nod, he sent one of his servants over to answer the door and usher the knight back to the young earl's study, cage and papers in tow. "Sir Falkner," he greeted with a nod as soon as the knight was before him, taking the envelope and pulling it open. "Not a short missive, then? Well, you have my thanks for the errand. You can set Sirona down and open her carrier; I hope she didn't cause you too much trouble—"

He trailed off slightly, frowning down at the first paper he held from all those sent in the envelope that Roger had handed to him.

"Falkner, you aren't acquainted with a Baron Bridger, are you?"