Macbeth wordlessly loaded an arrow into his crossbow, and then looked at the other rebels fleetingly as if still trying to keep track of who they all where and what use they might be later. As far as he was concerned, there was little more to be said, they where only wasting time dawdling while their comrade wasted away in a prison cell. His mind turned to his own role in the raid and just exactly how he planned to do this. He'd never been trained to fight on the ground, away from the trees. His people owed all of their past military success to mastership of the forest and sheer numbers, so he was a little bit more then out of his element. 

He figured he'd be relying on the larger creatures to do the bulk of the actual fighting, but he wasn't about to be shown up by them, either. He would fight to justify his continued existence to his ancestors, and make his presence felt even among the more physically impressive creatures. After all, in his own heart he felt that he was superior to them in every way. This belief was so embedded in his consciousnesses that even years of living among other races hadn't shaken it.

"I am ready."