There was a pause, when it seems as if the Beastmaster's creatures, turned carefully alert and savage, might snap or assault, training their teeth on the long pastures of Hendrik's flesh. A moment when everything around them stills, and the village's bustle is eclipsed by pained, sharp, heavy breathes.

A moment that passes, the Beastmaster's arm withdrawing without the rabbit catch. He nods, and his bandages seem to wilt with the gesture, threatening to unravel.

"Find... one." Any huntsman has need of a hound. But then, the Beastmaster's purse of quarry is yet full, trotted around in the fanged mouth of a docile hybrid. He starts to search the pouch until he settles on picking out a fawn, glancing about for the next man in need of his strange benediction.