They are awkward, despite their shared blood, chafing against each other unpleasantly. Colt was a mistake, one of his many, and despite his efforts to fix her and shape her malleable young body into a war machine, he couldn't make her grow balls.

Ricochet hated her for that, but she was from his testicles and his burning blood.

Up she draws herself, neck flexing slightly, the muscle strong but not quite approaching the strength compared to a stallion's. Once again he is reminded bitterly of her marehood, but what can he do of it? Nothing. At least she had the wits which could make up for her physical flaws, as she had proved soon after she had begun to react to his abuse, his endless taunts, the fire exploding beneath her hooves as dust turned to gunpowder.

The taste in his mouth sours as the silence thickens between them, the sunlight crushing the weight out of him as she inflates her chest, the hard lines of her muscle becoming apparent. Over time she had learned better than replying to his little jokes, tempering her fire a way Ricochet had never learnt himself nor cared to. She was less volatile, more calculating... more Gunslinger in some ways, not that the Incendiary cared to admit it or even let the thought appear in his thick skull. In response to her excuse, he dips his cranium abruptly. There is no swarthy grace in his movements, no elegance, only the brutal strength of a man who used his fists and not his wits so much.

Guns barks at his hooves, tail wagging slowly over the ground.

"Shut up and listen to begin with," Ricochet grumbles, but the order is half-hearted. How can he begin to explain his plans when his mind jumps from place to place?

Let's simplify it.

"Unlike the ashes of Isilme, this is a place overflowing with skyrats and hornheads. They wander without fear and with great idiotic grins on their faces. We will strike terror into their hearts, and remind them of the strength of the equine race, and how they are little more than animals waiting to be culled. Secondly, recruit to our cause as you will. I trust even you can't screw that up. Take any equine as a friend, but not as ally." A wicked festers on his face, turning his 'handsomely' burned face into a hideous thing. "Strengthen your skills of battle."

The gundog at his hooves stands, eyes turning upwards to his master, sensing the electricity crackling off the buttermilk pelt. "Most of all, be quick and strong, and uphold the pure blood of our race."