He lands. Only briefly, without putting Cassandra down, so that he can listen for something, anything still in the barracks without the wind of both the weather and his flight wicking every scrap of heat left in him. And not very close, so that Cassandra cannot see the worst of it through the gloom, so she doesn't have to whiff more of the slaughter than she has to. But the Briarwoods were here. They got here first.

... Not for long, if he has his way.

(It's a little strange. He's seen what it looks like before, blood in the snow, the way it stains it, melts just a bit, the steam of heat wicking off in the cold. Somehow he hadn't thought that other people's would look just the same.)