The ivory of her horn, discolored somewhat by either age or neglect, maybe even naturally – the way the soft off white and peach of its spiral matches her hooves - hovers near the underside of his barrel, only its polish dull and unimpressive. He has no doubt of the weapons sharpness. “My lady,” He shudders, worried for her closeness and for the unspoken intention in her posture. “You are too kind.” He falls into genuine manners as a means of placating, gingerly stepping away from the proffered blade lest its wielder decide to disembowel him, or worse, desex.
His mind devolves to swearing and sputtering, furious that he’s allowed himself to be caught in this moment of vulnerability, given the mare an easy opportunity to wound him with far more than words. All she’d have to do is make a sudden up-swing with that horn, but he dearly hopes that she won’t. His white rimmed eyes and back turned ears beg for leniency while his mouth works to delay her long enough to create some distance between them again. “Surely a maiden like you will have retainers for such things. Combs, salves...” He trails off, voice pinching into something small and strained. Don't hurt me, it wordlessly pleads, all pride forgotten in the face of danger.
"Alby talks" 'Strom talks'
OOC // @Sheba