The old stallion laughed softly, and Ricochet's jaws clenched, wondering if the withered man was mocking him. His brow furrowed, deep lines carved over his eyes, and he forced a smile on his charcoal lips, a cruel sort of smile that made cowards flinch, teal eyes glinting with a flash of frustration. This stallion was probably so old all the sperm in his shriveled tests had dried up, and here he was, ignoring Ricochet like he was still a boy wet behind the ears.

He strove to rein in the anger that gnawed at him, but his lips wrinkled into a sneer, ugly as the burn on his face.

The sway-backed warmblood picked at his knees absent-mindedly, soft lips sucking on a flybite, and Ricochet flicks his knotted tail in frustration, sending a cloud of flies swarming from his milky flank. Old men- they were all the same. They thought themselves veterans of war and wise leaders of hot-headed youngsters, while they were little more than vapid shells, far from their youth and deep into the land of scarred limbs and arthritis. Of course, the Incendiary never considered he would probably be much the same when he was older- an arrogant bastard who lorded over anyone without the aching joints of the old.

And yet, the decrepit stallion went on solemnly to mutter about a preference for work over retirement. Ricochet's eyes widened incredulously, and for a moment his jaw gaped, about to snap out some short, crude retort, before his maw snaps shut. He wasn't a two-year-old anymore. If this grizzled nag wanted to be in the midst of battles, Ricochet could find somewhere where he could be killed out in the plains of war. It shouldn't be too difficult; there were plenty of bright-eyed stallions eager for their first victories, and even a minor injury would no doubt send Czernobog onto the brink of death.

"There's plenty of jobs needing done. Wouldn't be hard to find something useful for you to do." The Incendiary inclines his head, to hide the strange expression overcoming his youthful smirk.

Strangely enough, Artemis makes no comment. For a moment the equine racist's eyes flick up again, searching hers in mild curious, but when his line of sight crosses over her pearl horn, he shudders, tearing away his gaze back to Czernobog, who asks of his plans. Nothing I can tell you here, old man, the stallion thinks, and he offers a thin smile. "We would need to go somewhere a touch more private... but some pretty damn exciting plans."