The ground was a slimy mess, littered with the bodies of both men and crustacean.

Horace tread over the gloopy ground. His large hooves and shaggy fur dragged through the muck. The glauver made a disgusted grunt as he passed through the grime of the fighting grounds and made his way through the crude flap of the medical tent.

The general lay there, his face marred, head and arm swathed in bandages, and a chunk of his enormous moustache missing from where a monster of a crab ripped it off.

“Fysch,” Horace greeted, chewing on the edge of Fysch’s blanket casually.

“Horace…” Fysch tried his best to wave.

“I’m leaving, Fysch. The swarm is ended. Besides that, you’re smelly.”

...This being told Fysch by what was, for all intensive purposes, a yak covered in crab guts. Fysch sniffed, not making any denials.

“If there’s another swarm, I’ll return.” Horace peered at Fysch piercingly. “I’d hope ye never see me again, were I you.” Then he left the tent, and St. Renault, for, as far as he was concerned, forever.