The massive red hunter is inconceivably polite, first subduing his stride and now giving priority to the mongol.

Batu rustles his nape, either position would be better suited to a man of Layre’s size and skill, and he trods after in inquisitive awe.

“I will slow her while you deal the end,” horselord whispers, waiting for a signal before pushing out from the grass and beginning the hunt.

He flies into the valley, an arrow loosed from bowstring. To run, to pant, to breathe deep the flowing air, all these things are good for a hunter's body after standing as a lithos for so many hours outside the empress’ apartments.

Thoughts of disconcert cannot permeate while the wind bleats strongly through ears and tongue. Batu dives through the herd, working to divide the old cow from her kin, pushing her up against the rim of a valley butte before leaping for a latch on the ragged hind.

Precise, experienced, the red hunter lays their quarry low with little sport and great compassion, and as the mongol adjusts his own grip, he wonders what god the man reveres to move in such a way.

Cow blood is pooling, slickening bites. She staggers and Batu shifts from forceful kick to control a hip, waiting out the fight as Layre drains her.