It's going to work out. Lord Friggatebottom reaches a paw out of the coat and Detlef hurriedly reaches in to scratch his chin, rewarding him for behaving, trying to process his shock. It doesn't seem to be working, but at least he can hear Lorne and nod numbly.

"The stable's not too far." How could he not at least offer them hospitality when they're letting him keep his life? "And there's a fire."

After an awkward half-beat he turns and starts heading toward the stables, assuming he'll be followed. He's Profane, who wouldn't want to keep an eye on him? Except these men, apparently, and Colin, and Faro, and even Lance somehow.