As he found the tournament grounds, he ran into more and more ponies and griffons in various suits of armour and weaponry. And more species besides: there a dog, there a minotaur, there… Was that a deer? Well that was another source of meat Handy was not allowed to consume ever again. Now these stares he didn’t particularly care for. If you’ve ever walked into the wrong bar before, you’d understand exactly what it felt like to be sized up for a potential brawl. He committed a few of the warriors he saw to memory. There was one particularly vicious looking griffon in full plate sitting outside a black and gold tent he didn’t like the look of. He clicked his talon blades on the haft of his halberd as Handy passed. There was also a grey pony wearing a purple, hooded cloak, barely hiding its black cuirass that turned to look at him as he passed. There was something about the way it carried itself that was distressingly familiar, so he made a note of being wary if he saw it again.