[center][h2][color=#008b8b]Fionn MacKerracher[/color][/h2][/center]
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Small disappointment aside—he'd hoped there'd be some trick possible for the Feinyar to actually communicate a bit—Fionn's cheerfulness at the fight to face them was almost entirely undimmed. As Gertrude and Arken set about enchanting the rest of the knights' weapons, he turned back to Fiadh. [color=#008b8b]"Try to keep yourself out of the thick of things, yeah?"[/color] he suggested. [color=#008b8b]"I'd rather you not get hurt."[/color] Whether or not she would listen, he wouldn't even try to guess; he figured she was equally likely to keep away and avoid risking seeing [i]him[/i] get hurt as she was to stick close and be ready to step in on his behalf if anything bad might happen, as with the tree-snake before.

With the majority of [i]his[/i] preparation done, he followed along with the rest of the group at a relaxed pace, borrowed blade held loosely in his hand. The feeling that they were being watched grew and grew, unsurprisingly; it seemed the Hunt was curious about the supposed 'prey' that was moving to meet it, rather than already turning tail and fleeing. As the knights took their places in the clearing, however, it was obvious that the anticipation couldn't go on forever.

As Fanilly severed her first attacker's head and hell broke loose in the rest of the clearing, Fionn stepped forward. A lazy backhand swing of the raven-dark sword sent some of the smaller assailants scurrying away from him as the wind whistled over its edge, denying their thought that this apparently least-armoured of the still reachable Iron Roses would make an easy target. He could hear as Renar, Gerard, and Fleuri each found their own targets amid Rozenalt's lieutenants. The rest of the knights, with Arken's help, would be more than enough to deal with the rest of the Hunt—which left him with the one unique figure left over.

The Midnight Hunt had always been a dark mirror of a hunt [i]par force,[/i] complete even with methods that would never be accepted by proper society—the Trapper's presence being proof enough of that. The feather-adorned personage before him, then, with their spectral gyrfalcon, had no doubt expected that they would set out to harry the party and soften them up before the others could arrive. If, in this case, he was to carry a raven's blade...

Fionn grinned, placing both hands on his blade and dropping it into a low guard. Open, relaxed, seemingly utterly heedless of the rest of the fighting about to consume the clearing. He would make himself as much a pest for the Falconer as ravens and crows had themselves pests for the sport of falconry for as long as anybody could remember. [color=#008b8b]"Think she's fast enough?"[/color] he asked conversationally, nodding up at the ghostly falcon. [color=#008b8b]"Looks starved, like."[/color]