Where he took little pleasure in each kill, in the destruction they wrought on the orders of their Emperor, the Huntsman was nothing less than satisfied to see the aftermath of their attack. Not for the many who lay dead at their feet, still in their sprawl across the ground, their blood seeping into the dirt, but for the skill of each of the Wolves under his command.

None of their number had been lost in the violence, few bearing so much as injury, stealth and planning as much on their side as their competency in battle and the ferocity with which they unleashed it upon those who opposed them.

Beyond steel, there were those who slipped liquid from one form to another and caused as much havoc in the panic they inspired in their enemies as they did destruction. The sound of their howls, Marceline's included, were a sound that had been his lullaby so long ago and now stood as a call of victory he could be no less comforted by. He nodded to the (apparent) young woman in approval. For all her strangeness and love of tricks, he would no sooner have denied her ability as he would have returned to Rome to live a life within its walls.