The mare yields to his will without so much as a moments impasse. Her feral, almost predatory gaze shifts wholly to him and in the face of such naked savagery he steps back, unsure if the guttural noises coming from her throat are a warning or an agreement, fearful and fleeing the stalking steps she takes toward him. Thankfully she stops, the growling, gurgling murmur of noise rising into a new bought of laughter as she answers his query - Of course.

His ears flick forward, releasing a tensely held breath as the mare turns away, breaking her too intense stare. Again he watches her mount an offensive, this time her movements more measured, a snippet of the intelligence tucked behind her bestial nature showing in the way that she veils her positioning, distracting with a flurry of kicked up snow while the wrath of her jaws snakes forward to rend and rip. He glances back to the General, guileful and clearly impressed with himself as the she-devil slinks around his decrepit figure, though the squeal of surprise from her nip - more akin to a full fledged chomp from his side of the experience - shatters any illusion of dignity he might have built.

The blue roans second bout of praise quickly turns to criticism, condemning the old stallion not for the use of his magic, but for who he chooses to use it on, as if subsisting in the same general area makes those around him of untouchable status. He shrugs, dismissing the notion, but the command that follows turns his head, a quizzical tilt to his brows. Release her? His ears fall at opposite angles, emerald eyes cutting back to the mare who still stands staring as boldly and unerringly as before, more so even. With the others - Rexanna, Rikyn, Sabia - the magic had simply worn off after a time, their true feelings emerging as if from a fog and he has no reason to believe it won't this time too, but the intensity of the mares staring is unsettling, so he nods, briefly asserting - in his own mind if nowhere else - that the magic lose its vigor, rescind into the space of his consciousness until next he calls upon it.

And then the trees are moving again, drawing the unicorns attentions away from each other and back to the task in front of them. The old black has time enough to hear the kitsunes cackle, to register a blur - no, multiple blurs - of movement to his right, before his own tree is leaning, reaching with spiny, branching arms and fingers aimed at his throat. It doesn't even occur to him that the trees efforts might not be directed at tearing his jugular from the skin of his neck. He simply reacts, rising on his hind legs to meet strike for strike, front legs churning wildly, frantic in his defense of self. His mouth hangs open, a bellow of surprise and anger bursting from it, and then his hocks begin to shake, to falter under even the slight weight of his body, made brittle by age and arthritis. So he pivots, shifting from hind legs to fore and kicking out in an effort to cover his escape, but the buck is too violent, too vehement, and his right hind pops under the strain, something internal painfully wrenched or torn, forcing him to land on three legs instead of four.



"Talk."
OOC // @Erebos @Beloved UH OH