"I believe you are correct," Syr Sabinian told Osytha, although he didn't add it had been a long time since he had read the story and now the order was all jumbled. It sounded correct though and that would be enough for the elf. The more they walked, the less Sabinian started looking for clues about Midnight and the more he began to listen to Osytha, letting Guffers to take the lead in finding Midnight.

"History," he mused, not what he had been expecting, if only because he didn't much enjoy it. But he had liked Kalibar's writing style, it was one of the few history books that had felt like fiction, and perhaps some things were fictious but a lot of it was true. How long ago had he read it? Sabinian hardly remembered any of it now, but he did remember how it made him feel the first time he had finished it. A little bittersweet, then empty, and now... forgotten.

Sabinian didn't share anything he was reading, instead locking in on something far more interesting, after all, the elf already knew what he had been reading, he was reading it, why share it?

"A book club?" What a novel idea. The inclusion of tea was enough to get Sabinian to bite. "Could anyone join this?" His face had soured. "I think it should be exclusive. Syr Silas is not allowed, nor Syr Noa and Syr Cymbeline. Syr Cymbeline will surely try to join, perhaps out of jealousy when she discovers we have also started a book club at the Monastery or to try and steal good ideas." It didn't occur to Sabinian that meeting once a year meant that people would be quick to forget about a meeting.

"And no squires, either." This was said because lately the squires had been getting under his skin. It seemed every generation brought forth squires that had bigger personalities than the last. Who else didn't Syr Sabinian like? "Syr Willard cannot join us either, but Syr Hector can. And Syr Caelia and Syr Cydonia. I wish Syr Castor would join us, but I feel the more I beg him to spend time with me the more he does not." Now came the fun part, who could join? And what would they read? "We will all read a great large book over a year, meet and discuss it for a full day - on a Tuesday, obviously. I will bake cookies, you will bring the tea, and, for having the grand idea, Syr Osytha, you may pick the first book. I will pick the second book."

They broke through a copse of birch and finally could lay eyes on the water gliding over smooth stones, water clear and cool. For a moment, Sabinian thought he saw Midnight, but it was only a shadow... until it wasn't that at all. A flash of black so dark not even light could escape it or try to outline it, but it disappeared behind a layer of green. The elf paused, unsure if he had actually quite sight of Midnight's tail or if he was dreaming it up. He looked to Syr Osytha with a dark brow raised high, posing the question if she had seen exactly what he had.
 
No Syr Noa, she can understand. Osytha doesn’t know what Sabinian’s beef with Silas and Cymbeline could be, though; her impression of Silas is that he’s a decent enough sort, often found glued to Syr Lucero’s side, while Cymbeline strikes her as a sweet, considerate woman. A bit bookish, too, which she thought would have been up Syr Sabinian’s alley. Maybe their interests are a little too aligned; always competing to loan out the same books from the library, kind of thing. A little bibliophile blood feud blooming between the stacks. As for Syr Willard… would he even be interested in such a club?

“I can try speaking with Syr Castor,” she offers. Doesn’t know how likely that is to work out, either, but it can’t hurt to at least ask. “And the others, if you like, syr — Hector, Cydonia, Caelia.”

Syr Caelia… a bit of an odd duck, that woman. Which is to say: likely to be a perfectly pleasant character as soon as Osytha gets off her high horse and actually speaks to her, the way she’s been able to with Syr Sabinian today. She sees why Syr Cydonia makes the cut; now there’s a knight who has an excellent gift with people, so that it’s harder work to not get along with her. Grudges tend to dissolve away in the face of that studious affability, given enough time.

And as for Syr Hector… he’s another gap in Osytha’s knowledge, that one. Most of what she knows of him comes from what she’s read in reports: very skilled martially and in weaving. A veteran who conducts himself well in the field, for the most part. Recklessly, at other times — which can mean a whole other order of FUBAR magnitude for a weaver of his calibre. The Sumu incident; talk about a hard read. And not one she’s likely to pick for their little club, all things considered.

Thoughts of fire trigger a memory from years ago, when she’d been a rather different Osytha. She wonders if he’s a rather different Hector, now, as well. Or do you still weep at the pyres, syr?

“… I very much look forward to et, syr,” she tells Sabinian, manoeuvring around a drooping branch’s attempt to re-do her hair. “An’ kind of you to let me choose first. ‘A great large book’, you say. I suppose If You Give a Unicorn a Carrot is aht of the picture, in that case.”

The forest has grown steadily more… damp, is a way to describe it. Cool air tinged with moisture, its earthy scents less that of mummified leaf-litter drifts, sharp and dusty against the sinuses, now more the smooth fungal funk of thorough decomposition. Ferns and bryophytes are more plentiful here. And mud. A lot more mud about. Osytha dances around it best she can, from tree root to tree root, though every now and then she has to plant a thick heel into even thicker, sucking, slippery sludge. Little surprise, then, when they come across a trickling little brook in its stony bed, cutting through this little clearing in the birch.

Osytha doesn’t get any clearer a look at that fleeting inkstain than Sabinian does — but she doesn’t have to. The way Guffy freezes mid-trot, ram-rod straight and ears triangulating in toward that sylvan screen, tells her everything she needs to know. She glances over to meet Syr Sabinian’s querying gaze, and, crouching down, answers with a nod.

“Hider,” she whispers to Guffy, and the dog hesitantly waddles back toward her, casting a couple glances over his shoulder along the way. Osytha looks to Sabinian in turn, awaiting instruction. This is his circus, after all, and this is his spikey monkey lurking in the bushes over yonder.

… Or, you know, a bear. Could be that’s a bear in there.
 
A heavy gulp from the elf's pale throat, this was it. This was the moment that he would take Midnight and they would all return.

Sabinian gestured for Osytha to stay still. The elf didn't move for a long moment, ears pricked and listening. The sound of water and the wind against leaves were distractions. He had never been able to tame Midnight enough to come to him when he called, he had instead taught the unicorn that he would chase after it if it ran and what a fun little game to a unicorn such as Midnight, ever the most wild beast to never be tamed.

It was easy to make Midnight do anything with a treat. But Sabinian had no treats and even if he had a carrot, Midnight had already eaten his fill. He should have brought some sugar cubes. What if he pretended he was getting attacked. Green eyes glanced at Osytha, she could make it believable, he was sure of that. A painful thought reminded Sabinian that Midnight would never come to his rescue, he had once tried playing a prank on the unicorn and he had only been met with a dark, dull stare.

That left only one choice, the worst choice of all.

"We will have to trap him, Syr." Sabinian frowned at the thought, cupping his chin with a hand as he wondered if roots and vines could really be enough to keep Midnight still. "If I can sit on him, I will be able to calm him down enough and behave." The sitting was necessary, a good reminder that field sworn was the boss. "The worst thing imaginable will have to happen to Mr. Cuddles. Midnight will be angry but it is a risk I am willing to take."

The rope he had brought was pulled out and handed to Osytha.

"Are you any good with a lasso?"
 
“Good enow.” Osytha’s lips twist, lopsided, as she takes the rope and begins to loop it into a lariat. “Not my preferred method, but I trust your judgement, syr.”

Forcibly restraining a beast only tends to panic it even more, and a creature driven mad with fear becomes reckless, which really means: good at finding stupid ways to get itself hurt. Still. Syr Sabinian said if he can just get atop of Midnight, he’ll be able to calm the unicorn down. Osytha only needs to give her dawnling that window. The best thing she can do, then, is hit hard and fast enough that it’s over before Midnight realises anything has even started.

“The worst thing will have to happen to Mr. Cuddles. Midnight will be angry, but that is a risk I’m willing to take.” She glances down at the ragged hint of plush toy which peeks out from its swaddling; that poor mangled effigy, looking like a teddy bear had somehow caught mange, with its odd smell she doesn’t want to think too hard about. The faint gleam of sad, resigned button eye seems to peer back at her from the darkness.

“Whatever you intend wi’ Mr Cuddles,” Osytha whispers, tying off a final stopper knot, “why not ’ave me do et instead, if you reckon et’ll piss Midnight off? Better for ’im to be mad at me than at yersen, syr.”

She feels a scrabbling little sensation on her thigh, and glances down into a pair a beautiful, affectionate, dark brown eyes. Guffy has his paws up on her leg, and the insistent look he’s giving her is a clear reminder she’s behind on her pat quota. Osytha lowers a hand and rumples the top of his head thoroughly between the ears.

“Or you know,” she goes on, thoughtfully, “’appen Midnight needn’t be mardy at either of us. If you reckon a certain wee syr is up to the task?”
 
Gravely, he stared at Osytha, impressed enough at her ability to tie a good, strong knot and yet unimpressed by her offer to take on the mantle of subjecting oneself to the dirty task of holding Mr. Cuddles in their mouth. Sabinian knew Midnight well, merely holding the stuffed toy wouldn't be enough for him to assert his dominance, because somehow Midnight knew that having the toy in one's hands was not the same as it being their mouth. Unicorns didn't have hands, at least, Sabinian didn't know of any that did, so there was nothing to be jealous of, sweat was not the same as slobber.

Green eyes went to Guffy, at his happy tail wag as Osytha gave him a pet. He looked quite proud of himself, and he should be, Sabinian thought, he did a lot of good work. The moment he had caught the trail, they had come across Midnight. If it was Midnight, but for once Sabinian preferred to be optimistic.

He had a hand on his hip as he considered her suggestion. He hadn't wanted to put Mr. Cuddles in his mouth, no matter how much he loved Midnight, it was disgusting, the sort of thing that was a test, like a idiot man warrior going to hell to bring their lover back to life. Once having Mr. Cuddles' in his mouth, there was no going back, he had ascertained moments before that it would be something to haunt him until he died.

Would his dying words be 'Don't tell anyone about Mr. Cuddles'? Really he didn't have any moral struggles in martyring the purehearted Guffy when comparing the regret his well maintained and cavity free mouth. Of course, asking Syr Osytha was out of the question, so it left either him or the dog.

"Well," Sabinian rolled up one robe's sleeve, exposing a forearm that was paler than the Mirror Moon. The arm he'd sacrifice, getting a good grip on Mr. Cuddles and beginning to shake it towards Osytha's companion. "What an unexpected hero but fortuna has always favored the bold. You should hide, Syr, I will handle the rest. And may it not take long." With a bend of his knees, Sabinian leaned over, his free hand flourishing the length of his black robe.

Sabinian did his best to get the dog's attention with a weak, out of tune whistle. The second try was better, but that might have been the addition of the shaking and wiggling of Mr. Cuddles. It wasn't the third whistle from the elf that finally peeled him away from Osytha's leg but the slightest hint of a excited baby voice followed by few carefully chosen awkward sentences:

"Look at this, Guffy, hey, you see this? This is the best toy ever. And it's all mine."
 
“You should hide, Syr, I will handle the rest.​

This elicits a succinct gesture from Osytha, her hand raised to head height in a thumbs-up; understood. She slips away back toward the line of birch, finding a handy patch of great willowherb to mask herself from Midnight. As she brushes in behind those feathery leaves, an almost sweet, crisp apple aroma dances on the edge of her nostrils.

Alright then, she thinks, crouched and weighing the lariat’s standing end with a monkey’s fist knot. Let’s see what you’re made of, syr.

Guffy starts to pad along after Osytha, but stops when she holds her open palm up high toward him. Hold. Wee lad looks mighty confused as to the why, but he understands the commands. Enough that when she follows up by jabbing her pointed forefinger in Sabinian’s direction, Guffers twists his head hesitantly around toward the sound of ineffectual whistling and high-pitched crooning.

“Look at this, Guffy, hey, you see this? This is the best toy ever. And it’s all mine.”​

There are a lot of things Guffy doesn’t understand. That there are some times Osytha prefer he not be glued to her, that one’s always a puzzler. Nor does he understand why he’s not allowed to gobble up the really interesting-smelling things he finds, either. He doesn’t understand the majority of that strange barking which comes out of the two-legs’ muzzles. None bar a handful of noises, such as his own name, a decent few commands, and the very exciting words that are actually worth remembering. Words like ‘treat’, ‘dinner’, ‘walk’… and ‘toy’.

He also understands what it means when someone’s taken that very biteable-looking toy and begun to waggle it at him like that. Even better — it’s one of the really, really ‘interesting-smelling’ things he’s not normally allowed to put in his mouth.

It’s always the forbidden fruit which tastes sweetest, isn’t it? Metaphorically, anyway. Mr Cuddles no doubt tastes like a lot of things, none of which are worth thinking about too hard. But ‘sweet’ probably isn’t anywhere on the list. Not that that appears to be an issue for Guffers.

Two ears perk up: one ramrod straight, the other wobbling forward. Big, excited eyes lock onto that plump fuzzy morsel that Syr Sabinian is dangling his direction. A long dark snout opens, slightly, slobbering in anticipation.

All yours? Not for long!

And Guffy comes a-charging.
 
It was much easier to entice Guffy to play with him than it was with Priscilla, unless he dropped a quill on the floor, then she'd play with that all day. Years ago, when he had found her as a kitten, he had lavished her with every toy imaginable, ribbon tied to a stick, cotton-stuffed toy mice and birds, little bells and hard-twine balls. All of them had none little to peak Priscilla's interests.

The surprise written clearly on Sabinian's face contradicted the big smile the dog gave him, already Guffy's round eyes had a look of playful joy. Bounding towards him, showing off the innate athletic ability all dogs had no matter how big or small, Guffy was the cause for Sabinian taking a step back, beginning to raise the stuffed toy higher than before. Sabinian had originally planned to lead the dance of vying for Midnight's favorite toy.

Another step back, a fling of Sabinian's arm, but Guffy was a professional in his ability to turn his head and jump that way, snapping his maw around Mr. Cuddles big, stinky head. The Dawn Knight yelped in surprise, pulling up but that only had the dog pulling down, a little wiggle in his hind legs as he took a step back and had the man stepping after him. More push and pull, like a sailor fight against the wind and the waves, rowing his own boat and refusing to give up. A shout and Sabinian seemingly got the lead.

A miniature unicorn head with a horn as black as ink poked its head through bunches of leaves, eyeing the elf and the dog run about in their circles. Nostrils flaring, Midnight pushed through the rest of the leaves, crushing fern and grass beneath small black hoods. Inside of it's black eyes were the sprinklings of stardust, a ribbon of silver that was the only piece of light about the unicorn. The sunlight was sucked into the pitch-black night of Midnight's impeccably shiny coat.

With a shake of it's head, it brandished it's needle-point horn towards Sabinian, ready to stab him in the back of his knees. With a prideful whinny, it dashed towards the playful duo.
 
“Made special,” alright. Getting wee Midnight shod would be like shoeing a foal — you’d be hard-pressed to find a farrier who’s even done such a thing. Osytha has a sudden, brief yet intense vision of her stepfather Hroðgar hunched right over a tiny little anvil, tiny little tweezer-forceps in one hand holding a tiny crescent of cherry-red metal around the anvil’s tiny horn, while his other hand strikes away at it with a tiny little hammer in careful, tiny little blows.

She’d known Midnight was small based on his tracks alone, but… he’s just a baby.

Not really, though. Osytha knows he’s as full-grown as he’ll get. But still. The thought of lassoing that hip-high Vantablack menace couldn’t feel more abhorrent. Instead, every fibre of her being is telling Osytha to run out there and fling her arms around the event horizon of Midnight’s coat, as she sobs consolations (mostly for her own sake, let’s be honest) into his fur. Telling him it’s OK, he’s safe now; that Aunty Osytha won’t ever let anything bad happen to him no matter what. And she’ll buy him all the carrots he could ever hope to eat.

But she’s not going to do that, because she’s a weirdo stranger to Midnight and that’s still a very sharp murder-spike he’s got no qualms about using there, and nor is it so tiny that it can’t run Osytha right through her chest and out the other side. Plus, there’s something… unnerving about the prospect of throwing herself at that lightless silhouette. A part of her’s not entirely convinced that she wouldn’t fall right through into whatever abyss lies beyond.

Don’t dawdle, just get it over with. The sooner she gets the lariat over precious little Midnight, the less chance their scourge of carrots has of playfully skewering Syr Sabinian or poor Guffers. So, once the unicornling draws in close, once Osytha sees that he’s committed to the charge — she breaks forth from the screen of willowherb, with her lasso milling in the air beside her.

“I’m sorry!” she hears herself cry out, as the hempen ring slings forward.

… and had this had been a regular kind of rustle, with a straight-forward chase and regular-sized horsey participants, it would have been a nice smooth end to their mission right here and now. But it isn’t any of those things.

Osytha hasn’t had to lasso into the messy maelstrom of a mêlée before. It’s her first time testing her depth perception on something that looks like a two-dimensional black paper cut-out from whichever angle you look at him, bar the silver sparkle in his eyes. And she has never had to fight against the erroneous yet stubborn emotional response that she’s about to assault a literal baby. By themselves, any one of those could be surmountable. But their cumulative error when taken altogether yields some rather dire miscalculations.

The lasso shoots forward — closing perfectly around Sabinian as he stumbles into its path, cinching his arms nice and snug to his sides.

“Er.” The flashing red lights and blaring sirens suddenly flooding Osytha’s mind tell her that this is Very Bad, and requires an appropriate response. “Whoops…?”
 
"O... O...Osytha!" Appalled at the situation, Sabinian turns his head to seethe fully at the badger knight. "If you were not up to the task you should have told me." He has just enough time to jump out of the way of Midnight's pointy rampage. Guffy is, of course, far more nimble, and, it turned out, the victor of the game of tug-o-war, the even wetter and mustier Mr. Cuddles hanging proudly in the dog's jaws.

The elf continues his narrowed green glare towards the Dusker. Despite his many, many years at the Monastery, there was good reason as to why he had not been encouraged to help train the squires. The Captains before Helena and Selene had tried, at first it was with the Wylds, then with penmanship and research, but the same issue happened no matter what subject they placed Sabinian to teach.

His lack of patience for people being unable to admit that they didn't know how to do something. Either he'd be upset because they would tell him the didn't know how to do something, he'd show them once how to do it, and then he would complain that they couldn't do it on the first try. This was mild compared to what happened when someone lied about being able to do something and then failing at it. He was twice as stern about this.

Arrogance, despite being one of his greatest flaws, was what always brought down armies and well-thought out plans. It was akin to betraying the Order in his haughty eyes.

Midnight whinnied, missing his mark, eyes now on Guffers parading around with his beloved Mr. Cuddles. The miniature unicorn reared up most fearsomely, nevermind that it was a short display of power and masculinity, and that the stream seemed to make one of his black legs wobble. Long tail swishing, horn now tracking all of the dog's movements.

"And now he is really angry." Sabinian mumbled, finally using his hands to try and wiggle his way out of the rope. "Like me."
 
Searing shame scalds the tips of Osytha’s ears into a brilliant, glowing scarlet. “Terribly sorry syr!” she yells, dashing forward.

“You’ll need a Dusker… I’m good, I know the Wylds, and I’m here.”

“Are you any good with a lasso?” — “Good enow.”

“An,’ well — you ever feel summat of yours is missin’, syr, you just come and see owd Osytha. I’ll allus ’elp you look for et.”

Yeah, nice work, Osytha. She’s really delivering on her promises, here.

This is probably one of those things that’ll seem a lot funnier when she looks back at it later. Try, say, a decade or two? But right now, the only thing Osytha feels is deeply mortified. And disappointed in herself. There’s also a very strong knee-jerk reaction to make some excuses — which she squashes down in favour of helping free Syr Sabinian from the work of her own passion fingers.

Osytha is flustered. Sabinian is fuming. And meanwhile, Midnight is furiously rearing up, fixing for a fight.

But Guffy… Guffy is having fun.

Guffy has made a new friend! A four-legs like him! And not all that much larger than he is, either! He doesn’t usually get to play with the really big four-legs because mum gets upset with him if he gets too close to where they’re walking, and also because it’s sometimes hard to get their attention to begin with, what with them being all the way up there on those big legs of theirs and him all the way down here on his perfectly normal-sized ones. Guffy occasionally comes across a fellow not-big four-legs, but they aren’t always eager to play with him. Like his black-furred friend who visits sometimes and smells of Sabinian plus steamed fish and who has surprisingly sharp claws and who doesn’t actually act very much like Guffy’s friend despite Guffy knowing, with certainty, that Priscilla is Friend. But his new friend is very, very eager to play! And that has Guffy utterly over the moons.

While Osytha’s hands are busy loosening the bight around Sabinian, her eyes keep flicking back to her dark brindle potato as he flaunts Mr Cuddles around. Guffers prances smugly along after evading Midnight’s initial charge, stopping to give the poor cow a friendly little death-shake, ragging it violently in his jaws.

It’s up to you now, lad, she prays.

Midnight snorts, and levels his pin-point horn at the dog. Guffy faces him in kind, lowering his front half and sticking his curly-tailed rear in the air. Smooth riverstones clack as the unicorn paws threateningly at the ground. The mongrel’s bum wiggles with excitement.

Midnight charges. Again.

Guffy dances up, pounces to his right — a feint, bouncing sharply back the other side as onyx death spears past but inches away. Osytha has taught him well.

“There, syr!” she exclaims with a firm yank, and the loop widens enough to slip free. A lariat can sometimes prove too effective and jam under a heavy load; fortunately it’s only Syr Sabinian snared there. Currently, the only heavy thing about the man is his expression. He’s already working to escape, and with that, they can finally get the damned rope up over his head.

This time, though, Midnight isn’t stopping. The little unicorn executes a wide turning arc, those specially-made horseshoes splashing through water, kicking up moss and mud as he keeps galloping around to bear back down on Guffy.

Osytha can’t fuck up like that again. She can do this. She just needs to get used to tracking that strange, perspectiveless form; a near-perfect embodiment of motion camouflage and depth imperception. And she needs to get the hang of it in about, oh, two seconds?

Or… if it’s impossible to work out exactly where he is, then maybe, she doesn’t have to. Maybe there’s a way to know exactly where he’s going to be before he even gets there.

Motion camouflage. Fixed points…

Osytha sprints — not to, nor from, but around. Follows Midnight’s lateral movement until she’s put herself directly opposite of him on the other side of Guffy; right in the path of the upcoming third charge. A promise Midnight makes good on now, bearing down upon brave Syr Guffers.

Will his feint work again, or has Midnight become wise to it? They’ll never know, since Osytha doesn’t give any of them a chance to find out.

“Hider!” she yells out, and the dog whips around to face her. “Hider!” she screams again, watching Midnight’s deceptively slow-looking approach loom behind her boyo. But Guffy gets the message the second time, and comes running directly toward Osytha. Leading the unicorn right at her, too.

At least it’s easier when she only has to calculate for two dimensions. The lasso flies out once more. “Hliepé!” she commands, and Guffy jumps surprisingly high, right through that rope circle like it’s a circus trick.

Onward Osytha’s lasso soars, wheeling forth at the bigger, broader shape barrelling towards her. Hoops right around Midnight’s head and comes to rest above his chest.

One last order, “Beflēoh!” — flee! — to keep the dog running away, kiting Midnight until Osytha gets him locked down. She barely gets out of the way in time herself, and has to launch into a sideways roll through the shallow beck to avoid that vicious spike. But she’s back up on her feet just as quickly, hurling the heavy monkey’s fist toward the closest trunk where it bolos around, wrapping itself into an anchor point. Osytha doesn’t wait to see it happen — she’s already doling out resistance to the rope reeling away in the other direction after Midnight, feeding it with increasing reluctance through her riding gloves. She won’t let Midnight jerk to a complete halt all at once; that’s a good way to do some serious damage. But gradually: enough to constrict that lariat firm in place, then to slow him down so he doesn’t reach the end of his tether while running full pelt.

“You’re up, syr!” she calls out to Sabinian, as she leans hard backwards against Midnight’s pull. There’s a window now while the beast’s instincts tell him to fight against these sudden restraints, a losing battle which will shortly have him locked in place. “Just now!”
 
Wet. Sabinian is uncomfortably wet, his robes getting caught on the stream, Midnight's rampage having splashed him well on his chest and his long hair. His pants are wet, his arms tight to his sides, and now all of a sudden he's aware of all the sweat gathering underneath his arms. He should have left the robe behind, should have understood that just because the morning was cool did not mean that the afternoon would be.

Sabinian doesn't look at her as she comes to his aid because it's too late now. He is wet and angry, disappointed and sweaty. Despite needing her help, he makes a show of not looking her in the face, of keeping his simmering gaze on Midnight.

The heat of his gaze at Midnight is not enough to make him feel better, that little shit, he thinks bitterly. He was going to burn Mr. Cuddles right in front of the unicorn and smile while doing so.

Then, Osytha gives him a command. She told him what to do. Lips pressed so tightly in a line together that they were white and blending well into his skin. He was the older Knight, shouldn’t he be in charge? But it didn’t feel like he had control of anything right now, his original plan had been ruined, he wouldn’t even give himself another chance to see it through despite the troubles Osytha went through on his behalf.

Every stomp of his foot through the stream has Sabinian splashing more water on himself, getting him wetter, angrier. Midnight, bucking and jumping, trying to get out of the mess of his own making, swings his head towards the elf as if threatening him with a knife. The unicorn has enough brains to know what Sabinian is about to do and begins backing towards the tree, facing his Syr head on.

Sabinian had enough of today, everything now awful, any sweet memory having been soured. He goes to Osytha, grabbing the rope from her as if she lost her rope privileges and begins wrapping the slack around his arm and his palm, walking towards the tree. He has no issues with Midnight tugging, stepping forward as needed, passive aggressively undoing all of Osytha's hard work, finally getting close to Midnight and uttered a spell that every Knight of the Wyld knew but often abstained from using.

Midnight went completely still, the confusion spell overwhelming the unicorn long enough for Sabinian to make a makeshift harness for the unicorn's small head, connecting to the rope around his short neck. Everything was quietly done, frosty like a Lapvonian winter, Sabinian even went as far to breathe through his nose instead of his mouth (he still hadn’t quite caught his breath) just to make it clear he was giving the silent treatment.
 
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The little game of tug o’ war betwixt Midnight and Osytha has her so wrapped up that she doesn’t notice that Sabinian’s splashing footsteps are approaching her until the dawnling’s practically on top of her. One moment she’s crooning soothing words of nothing toward the struggling unicorn, the next, pale and slender hands are relieving her of her rope.

“Easy, pet, there’s a— um, syr? What’re you…?”

She has an uneasy feeling as she watches Sabinian reel in toward the unicorn. There’s a stiff sort of anger in his movements, a sullen silence being the only answer to her perplexed query… and Midnight seems to sense it as well. Their little terror can anticipate something which overrides his knee-jerk reaction to fight forward against the rope’s pull. Now he’s very specifically trying to back away from Sabinian, and keeping his eyes on the threat.

Osytha isn’t a spellcaster herself, but she knows both spellcraft and the Pursuit of Wyld well enough to understand what it is her dawnling is weaving over there.

“Eyah, ’old on a moment, syr—”

But the befuddlement completes and catches, rendering Midnight utterly inert. Osytha goes first to release the heaving line, where her tight-packed ball at the lasso’s standing end has wrapped around a tree, anchoring it in case the wee bugger had proven too much of a handful for Osytha alone. Her thoughts are abuzz while her hands work quickly; that was not the Plan, she’s pretty sure. The Plan was to rope Midnight down well enough that Syr Sabinian had a chance to get on his back, small as it is. And sure, she’d sort of, gotten off to a dud start. But anyone who’s been in the field understands that ‘no plan survives contact with the enemy’… and besides, after her cock-up it had all gone pretty much swimmingly. Or so she thought?

Only, now Sabinian’s scrapped the Plan entirely just as she’d gotten it right. And he’s clearly pissed, which to be fair, he has some right to be. Some. This much, though?

The rope is freed from its tether, and Osytha hurries back over to the action, coiling up the slack as she goes. Happen I’m imagining it, she figures, and lets out a sharp warbling whistle. Guffy’s head soon re-appears through the scrub, still holding that damnable cow toy. We’ve getten Midnight now, and no one’s hurt… can’t be that bad, can it?

“Um.” She draws up beside the dawnling as he’s finishing with the harness, presenting him with the remaining length of rope. She looks again to the small black shape which, mere moments ago, had practically cowered at Sabinian’s approach. Like a beast who knows well the taste of its master’s whip. “That spell. Was that… strictly necessary, syr?”
 
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