He regained control of his wings just in time to dramatically slow his descent, but it was not enough before he crashed through a tent ceiling and landed in a large wash basin. He spluttered and flailed as he gripped the wooden side and pulled himself up and stared, cross-eyed, at what appeared to be a large sock suited for a griffon's paw across his beak. Looking around, the tent was criss-crossed with lines with various articles of clothing hung to dry on them. The washbasin he was currently residing in was filled with more clothes, and he groaned at what the dirty water was going to do to his crossbow.