"Who the hell are you?" he asked quietly, holding his side. The pony didn't answer, curling up on the ground in pain. Although for all that, it didn’t seem to be from Handy’s hammer blows. Hell, there wasn’t a mark on his head. Strange. He looked up. The skies were clear, the pegasi either been knocked out of the sky or had descended beforehand. The guards who had found him were littering the ground around the ruined warehouse, out cold. He was tired, aching, and his head felt like it had a hot, burning brand skewering it. He looked down at the pony one more time, contemplating his options before leaving the poor bastard to the dubious care of the ponies of Black Port. It wasn't Thunder. Thunder was in Manehatten, and Handy had a boat to catch. Given his geas wasn't giving him trouble over it, he guessed it was a decision in keeping with its rules.