Shortbeak slowly recovered, having hit her head badly when she landed, the leather skull cap doing hardly anything to lessen the impact of stone upon her skull. Her vision blurred for a moment as she fought off what would almost certainly be a concussion, her claw gripping the edge of the table as she pulled herself up to see the room in chaos. Somegriffon was screaming, looked to be one of the guards. A hippogriff who had been pushed into the fire pit was screaming and rolling away, some of the others trying to put him out. One of the brigands, easy to distinguish with their white cloaks covered in snow, was down, bleeding. The remaining three caravan guards were each facing multiple opponents and fell in rapid succession. Fallow was holding his own just barely. The old fool still insisted on wielding that old, worn wooden mace that never seemed to break apart no matter what abuse it was put through.