The young roan shows a surprising amount of personality with his maiden address, not just demanding action but initiating it, drawing a begrudging nod of approval from the old stallions wizened head and neck. Show, don't tell, he thinks, already seeing more promise in the new Generals leadership than any of his predecessors managed - or bothered - to put forward these past several months.

He listens with interest as the boy outlines his game, setting up targets by some unknown magic, and watches with only slightly less interest as the actual warriors take to their task with a predictable lack of imagination. The mare moves first, but he can't seem to find the right word for the way she moves, an odd mixture of stalking and dancing that makes it difficult to predict her movements. Whatever it is, she does it over to the smallest of the trees, then whirls herself seemingly mid-step and with surprising speed to slam both hind hooves into the thin trunk of her chosen adversary, snow and dislodged needles raining around her with the aftershocks of the blow.

The old stallion winces, imagining that reverberation of force ricocheting through his very bones, the old wound of his left shoulder pulsing faintly once with the memory of what hoof to flesh actually feels like.

The buckskin moves next, marching with an almost joyous intent toward the second largest of the pines, then dropping low and ramming one side of his wide set shoulders into the bark of the tree in a powerful sideswipe. The old stallion shakes himself, again envisioning the repercussions of such a move on his less-than-ideal physique.

With two trees left, the largest and the second smallest, he glances back at the General, verifying his welcome here one last time before stepping forward. In laughable contrast to the first two assaults, he neither charges nor dances toward the pines, but shambles, his head low and hocks popping in audible protest. He's self aware enough to know that he should be embarrassed, but he's also old and demoralized enough to not actually care, instead wracking his mind for an answer to the question.

His best move is usually running away, his long legs and legitimate fear of death and dismemberment lending him rare agility, but retreat from a tree would undoubtedly be frowned upon in this company and isn't likely to gain him any insight, so instead he halts in front of the largest young pine with uncertainty broadcasting from every detail of his posture.

He'd fended passably well for himself in the face of the black and gold asshats attack, but he'd spent most of that time avoiding damage rather than trying to cause it, only rallying a counter through the enemies own momentum and strength. He blinks, ears falling back in bafflement. It's not like the tree is about to suddenly anthropomorphize and launch itself at him - right?

"Ay." Lures a voice in his head, its corresponding body wriggling in the confines of wool fabric at the stallions chest. A metallic clink faintly breaks the silence of their non-verbal exchange. "Eh." The voice suggests, shoving the metal tooth caps into view with the bulge of a limbless coil. The stallion cocks his head, then reaches down to fit the Earth Turtles gift over his own yellowed teeth.

Thus armed, he stares at the tree a moment more, conjuring visions of past detractors - there are more than enough to choose from - and with a grunt he shifts his weight from four legs to two, rising only slightly on his hind legs, and drives forward and to the left of the tree, reaching to the side to sink his unnatural fangs into its trunk and tear away whatever bark and pulp becomes clenched between them as he passes.



"Talk."
OOC // @Erebos Takes his sweet ass time and then bites the tree because fuck you tree.