Vodnik's heart rises in his throat just as Macabre rises from the forest floor. He feigns disinterest, but his attention remains on her. One ear locked in her direction is a dead giveaway.

The draft stallion expects the smaller mare to move away, and he is prepared to follow, but his assumptions are far from correct. Instead, the mare approaches him. Vodnik's pulse quickens, and he abandons his pretense. One last, hard swallow halts his chewing. He lifts his head. Both eyes and ears are trained on Macabre. His expression is pleasant, with both ears forward and eyes bright. His nostrils flare, catching quick breaths through his wounded trachea.

"Yes.", Vodnik answers simply in his rumbling voice. The Ridge is always quiet. If only Vodnik's own head could be so quiet.

"Are you hungry? I can show you better places to graze, or perhaps a place to drink.", he offers. In his quest for Macabre's approval, Vodnik tries this new act of being pleasant, and outwardly considering the feelings of others. The words of a kind host feel foreign on his tongue, but at the same time, it feels good to say them. It's exhausting to maintain an aggressive reputation, and Vodnik is tired. Perhaps he is just getting old.