One last call for alcohol

It was with only a hint of anxiety that the waif sat patiently while the remaining wolves trickled in, and the Warlord began to speak. The reason for the summons was simple enough, there was to be a practice raid and any of the specifically summoned individuals were in need of further raid experience. Sensible, really. After all, what was there to expect from a slave who had ben passed around more times than he could remember? The target was a pack called Habari, of which he was unfamiliar. The Warlord bade anyone uninterested in joining to speak up, but it was hardly his own prerogative to excuse himself from something he'd been directly requested to participate in. Autonomy wasn't an option at his rank.

Still as a statue, the dark furred male kept his pale gaze trained on his leader, and the request to mind his manners specifically. This was... a new one. When were there supposed to be manners in battle? Since this was merely for practice, it seemed possible that the goal was to strengthen ties to a political ally. Maiming a potential ally was a quick route to not having an ally anymore. He, of course, didn't have any questions to ask, even if he were allowed. Show up, don't die, and maybe afterwards take part in a little hunt on unfamiliar lands. Seemed simple enough. He wondered if he would be able to sneak through with his new companion and weapon, of if the likelihood of being noticed and punished by the Warlord outweighed the benefits of being armed...