Vodnik knew the battle would be easy, but the foray ends even sooner than he anticipated. A small bubble of disappointment balloons in his chest, as his opponent's fury subsides and a twists away. Vodnik lets the young stallion go, but his vigilance remains strong. Should Ailill find a second wind, Vodnik will be ready.

More talk cuts the quiet, night air. Missing out on a good fight is already enough irritate Vodnik. He has no desire to talk, only battle, so words grate on his nerves. The nature of the words spoken only work to irritate him further. It is Vodnik's turn to stomp a hoof on the sand. The ground beneath him shakes, and the vibrations of which, reverberate through the air like the moments following a thunder clap.

"You do not know me or my intentions. How dare you make such vile assumptions." The bay stallion's face is contorted with rage, a rage far greater than any he wore during the throes of their short battle. His ears remain flat under volumes of tangled, black mane, and his nostrils wrinkle in distaste. "I had every opportunity to use force against Macabre when you so foolishly allowed her to wander into the Ridge, and I did not. What makes you think I would do it later?"

As much as temptation tugged at his resolve, Vodnik has the brains to know when a mare means more than a single, forced mating. He understands that he can't contain an herd full of unwilling mares. He may weigh enough for two, but as reality stands, he is only one horse, and his abilities are limited. He intends to keep Macabe, so she must be willing. He intends to breed fine young with her, which means she must volunteer the time and effort to raise them well, so she must also be a willing breeder. He will not get what he intends to get out of Macabre if she is forced. Whether he cares for her or not, it wouldn't gain him anything to keep her as a prisoner, or treat her poorly. No, if he is to get what he wants from Macabe, she must be treated like a queen.