"The... the servants wouldn't... actually tell me why," Foster replies--he's trying to organise his thoughts to speak them, one stiff ear flicking at the too-close buzz of an insect. "But apparently whatever we kill still belongs to the manor."

Carly's question is much easier to answer, at least.

"But they are under my complete control, yes." His tone shifts from reserved to... smug, maybe. Condescending? Maybe he's just proud, for once, and really bad at expressing it. "I can use them to track our... uh, prey and run it to the ground, but after that..."

Even with them behind him, his smile is audible. "If did this alone, it would be mincemeat."

He owes them... a great deal simply for allowing him to join them, let alone permitting him to contribute. On his own, Foster is aware that his odds of... doing anything more than pointlessly tearing things to shreds were frankly abysmal. Thankfully for anyone trying not to think about that, his 'hounds' are moving faster now, and he lowers his head, leaning forward to focus as he urges his mare into a trot--then something a little faster.