The stallion took his responsibility seriously, finding that the role of the lead stallion that threw himself in front of danger for the sake of the women in his herd to be rather fitting for him. Vercingetorix was a serious creature with and old soul. He had seen and smelt death, and he had known for far too long how vulnerable women were at the time of their births. The red stallion had vowed to never let another women be left at the mercy of a stranger's hooves ever again. It had been long ago when his mother had died, taking away his sense of family with her soul as it faded into the horizon, but that memory had been the only thing emblazoned in his memory better than the smirking, golden face of his monster of a father.

He feels the dappled mare crowd up against his shoulder, opting to remain silent after graciously accepting Vercingetorix's welcome and allowing him to go about his business. The other male was smart enough to keep his distance, allowing the dun to push his dark tipped ears forwards for a few moments. As the air between them grew ever so slightly, the forest stallion found himself comforted at the stranger's respect for space and Vercingetorix's sense of home. He was doing his job, throwing himself on the line in front of the mare (despite knowing little more than her name) and keeping himself between the grullo and the bulk of the herd in the forest.

Listening to what the wanderer had to say, the previously bristling male relaxes only slightly, staring forwards with dark eyes as the other stallion prepares to retreat into the trees. “We can talk later.” He says with a voice that is much more approachable than before. He did not bother with yelling to close the gap between the two of them, and with a curt nod he waits for the trespasser to disappear into the trees before turning back to the mare.

When he finally looks to Yscha, he notices the remains of an uncomfortable look that had been painted across her face, and offers a soft touch in hopes of comforting her. He does not think that he has been overly aggressive, as the only stallion he had ever witnessed in action had been a friendly creature that welcomed all strangers into his home. The medicine hat was long dead and his family had dispersed into the horizon, leaving the orphaned red dun to prosper in the islands that the man had once been the pale king of. Rubbing his nose against Yscha's shoulder for a moment or two, he pulls his head back to softly mumble a word to her. “Sorry.”