Dragoncrest Cliffs "With it or on it."

He was returning to Hougeda, bladder empty from soaking the southern borders so heavily that it could be scented several miles away, when a short blast of a howl sounded out like a horn not far from his position. At the same time as his hackles flared, his stomach plummeted with dread. He'd heard that urgent sort of sound before. It had sometimes punctuated the nights in Trigeda when the battles were raging on, keeping him and the other Goufa awake and accompanying the smell of blood on the wind. Threats and temper aside, Ephraim hadn't wanted war to come to Drageda. He'd wanted to crush them before they could muster their strength against his home.

He spun on his heel and was off like a shot, employing all the speed his light frame afforded him. He might not be as strong as many of the Drageda core but he was damn fast, and his small rapier-like body could dart in and out with ease. He knew his value in a fight, but nonetheless, cold fear found a hold on his brain near the top of his spine so that when he arrived on the scene, he was running mostly on instinct and adrenaline. He wasn't thinking much at all. His eyes darted over Mallaidh with the brute—Eurycrates!—latched onto what Ephraim mistakenly thought was her throat. The last vestiges of sense left him and he flung himself wildly into the fray, aiming to sink his teeth into the bastard's flank.

His eyes were alight with feral madness. He didn't even see Opalia at Eurycrates' rear. He didn't even have the faculties to question where Eurycrates' army was. He purely was, in that moment, an unthinking animal.