The knight groaned as he returned to his work. His fur was a little more ragged than it had been before the fight, thanks to his opponent's daemonically sharp limbs. He'd also sustained a few minor cuts, little more than scrapes really. It was more than enough to be painful, though, and he had to work through the discomfort if he wanted to get anything done. He used the pain as a mechanism of focus, and with that, he increased his motivation. The cleaning went faster, but only a little bit. His lizard returned at some point shortly after the point at which the goat-man would have liked to eat lunch, and the beast brought with it the carcass of a deer. He hopped out of the pool at the sight of it, and quickly got into a stare-down with his steed. The beast was reluctant to share its meal, but eventually with the knowledge that its rider wouldn't short-change it terribly, versus the concept of losing a meal entirely, it backed down. 

The satyr happily helped himself to a hearty chunk of still-warm venison as his lunch, devouring it raw, much like his mount. Both the reptile and its master were soon sated, and while the beast went for a short stroll about their surroundings, the cavalier returned to work. He finished slightly ahead of his projected schedule, and finally managed to get dressed. Donning his armour once more was a comforting feeling like no other, and the smell of oil hung thickly around him, another delightful odour he had missed. He got himself put back together, and finally looked like the Knight of Cold Iron he was supposed to be, and not just another psychotic goat-man from the mountains who had come here seeking blood and death. Apparently it was a half-way common occurrence in some places, to have beastmen show up and murder people for fun. He supposed a band of adventurers or angry townsfolk might show up at some point, then, but he supposed he would just have to be prepared to show off his skills, if that were the case. 

It used to be, apparently, that daemons would have heads that were good for carrying around after they were slain. He'd yet to find such a thing, and longed for a similar trophy. Something he could hold aloft proudly, rallying his companions. Of course, he didn't have any companions either, so the point was moot. Still, something like a gorgon's head that he could flash around would be nice. He was pretty sure those didn't exist, or were extinct though. Then again, so many things that many claimed were only faerie tales had already died by his hand, so there was hope yet, he supposed.

Finally, the warrior managed to collect himself as he finished strapping his pack down to his lizard's back. While the beast shook violently and settled their cargo, he began planning the retrieval of his lance. It was going to be unpleasant, he decided, but entirely necessary. If he didn't get those cold-iron fittings, he'd be missing out on his greatest weapon. Such a thing was unacceptable, so he sighed, then took a deep breath of fresh air, and strode back into the cesspit that had once been a holy place. He strode back out again a moment later, trailing behind him everything he needed. He had no desire to even think about what had gone on in that place, and he cleansed himself of it once more in the swiftest manner he could find. The rest was easy. He stripped the cold iron from the broken lance, and now he just needed to cut a new one. A look to the sky told him he wouldn't get far if he wasted time making a lance today, however, and he groaned. "I suppose it's time to go." he told his steed, glancing about to see if the man with the halberd was still around...