The invitation had read for any and so Archeron had come as well. These prissy, pretty fae who thought they knew something of hunting, with the gold and their gilt and horses that had probably never seen blood... He could have laughed. Instead he rode in as the rest, dressed in no house colors, but in shades of brown and gray to better blend with the forest of the tundra. Where some huddled beneath cloaks, and others used magic to keep themselves warm, he merely pushed back his hood. Part of his hair was pulled back and tied with a thong, and with his hood back, the point of his ears was obvious.
It was likewise obvious that he was no Fae. Not even on his fine horse, Charon, an oil black stallion that closely resembled an Andalusian. Across the back of his saddle was a wrapped sword, the hilt visible in case one of those other inhabitants of the forest attacked. As for his horse, Charon was nimble and sure footed, but with enough power to double as a war horse if it was needed. He said not a word to anyone as he nudged his horse forward to retrieve one of the shock sticks.
It figured that the Fae were unwilling to kill the animal, but he understood the rules and would abide by them, if for no other reason than to show these pompous folk that they were not the best in everything.