"They are from the same lands, and follow the armies for the carrion." With the herd slaughtered or on the run, she gave the low whistle for her hounds to return and regroup. At his protest, she looked down at her arm clinically. The hairs had cut shallowly where her armguards weren't, bleeding well but not biting into muscle. "Hmm," she dismissed the wounds and then punched him in the solar plexus, a 'love tap' as he called it. "And still not an illusion," she added lightly with a smirk and walked into the forest where the horses came from.