“C'est moi.” Or, you know, he could totally get a response in perfect Prench, complete with a caravan accent and pronunciation. He didn’t recognise the voice, however. That made him waver, his face fell, and he almost dropped the grip on his sword in shock. He set his face and tightened his jaw. A caravan pony this far in griffon territory so soon after that border tension? Not a chance, and it definitely wasn't his caravan in any case—the accent was wrong. Maybe the griffons had a few Troubadours under their claws? It wasn’t uncommon. The number of griffons in the entirety of the High Kingdom who could speak Prench that fluently but would also be skulking about city streets in the dead of night, he could count on his hooves.