Kressle crossed her arms under her chest, supporting her bust and pushing her mounds a little higher in the process. Sure, she was doing everything that she was being told to like a model prisoner, but that was nothing grovelling about the way she held herself. Her face remained impassive even as her captors debated her honesty. "I met the Stag Lord twice," she offered. "The first time he was a hunter of hunters, drawing flocks under his banner in his quest to establish himself as king of jungle and hill. He slew the great stag personally and took its skull for his helm. The second time..." she shook her head and sighed. "Beneath the stag helm was the same man and yet a different man. He had discovered the bottle, and now wastes his days in drink, caring not what his subjects do so long as they return with a tribute of alcohol. These bottles?" she gestured, "they were meant for the Stag's Lord's personal use. His time as pack leader had come. And now it has passed."<br/><br/>"The little bug men?" She turned to address Oriana. "They were ugly, tiny squat wretches with ugly blue faces too large for their size. One of the lettered men called them 'mites'. He's dead now," she pointed at one of the corpses. "They rode on the backs of giant insects, but in the end they were cowards who ran in the face of a fight."<br/><br/>"And what of the other four of the pack, when they return with a boar strung up between them?" Kressle added. "They have lost what love they once had for the Stag Lord. If I lead them, they will follow me, and ultimately you."