Somewhere beneath that ever-tangled snowy mane, the violet eyes of the equine merely narrow as the Hunter moves to snatch something from the side of the store, the stick-like object within his hands seeing the horses pace...falter- if only for a moment, displaying perhaps some level of sense in the creature, or at least an ability to actually perceive some sort of threat. He is however, nothing if not the very epitome of entirely what he had been designed and trained for, no part of him truly fearing a stick, taught from his earliest days merely to charge head long at whatever it was that had been placed before him, human intelligence having allowed the man to learn that this form of assault was a pathetically easy method of exacting his own will on those around him, forcing others to run from him or be driven by teeth and hooves. It is simple domination, a tried and true method that is nearly as amusing to the horse as it is to throw Hunter after Hunter from his back for daring to hold any belief that he would allow them to hold some proposed equality to himself. Perhaps his companions were willing, perhaps they even pretend to enjoy this ridiculous farce of mount and rider and yet Frost fails to perceive anything from it other than Hunter's merely achieving yet another level of control over the supernatural world. That some part of him had, instinctively, not been opposed to Alexanders touch, fleeting though it had been, is little more than a momentary slip in his assurance, an instinct allowed too much free rein- the very sort of response the man has worked hard to learn to press back against and yet still it niggles at him even now. The barista before him is....different and yet in what capacity has not been truly explored, it is simply a perception, a wholly animalistic one that warns the stallion of his own intentions, some inner part of himself distinctly...wary of this man and yet it is his own instinct he chooses to ignore. Why should this man be different to any other self-righteous Hunter that had forever attempted to make him obey?

And just like the others- he would surely turn tail and run, the stallion choosing to do just as he has been trained, the stick written off as nothing more than a weak deterrent, surely little more effective than a man waving his arms as so many people so seemed to believe would halt a horse- the headstrong animal content to bare down upon the Hunter.

Alexander suddenly pivoting to the side results in the release of a single snort or irritation from the animal, the creature preparing to turn and come right back at the man before something colliding with his forelimbs sends the animal very near reeling in a frantic effort to remain upright. There are few times in which Frost is truly given to suffer the oppressive weight of his animalistic instincts, almost every fear capable of being restrained with careful control and yet- for a horse to lose it's footing is a perilous thing, one every tendril of self-preservation violently fights against- the man powerless to do anything but attempt to right himself in this form though this is a battle far from won, weight thrown backwards in a final effort to prevent himself tumbling, the creature managing, somehow, to turn as he stumbles, facing the Hunter once more as he is simply brought to his knees in an bow of sorts before the man- pieces of fractured spear scattered all about him. For a moment the stallion is merely left heaving, nostrils flaring as he makes some attempt to perceive how this had occurred, eyeing the broken spear pieces and the splinters he can feel within his own flesh before that gaze at last lifts to the barista, what is visible of those violet eyes resting upon the other man. He has never been....knocked down before, agitation prickling against his skin as one leg extends, followed by the other, the animal grunting with the effort of heaving himself upright in front of the blonde Hunter now, ears lacing back against his skull as the animal seems to waiver...

This is by far the most disobedient Hunter he has ever dealt with, ten years of suffering the 'training' of the European division of Hunters and not one has ever managed to bring him to his knees. Indeed all that had been achieved in that time was the stallions ability to better outsmart those around him, to learn how better to command them to do as he wanted. Evidently it would seem, this man is perhaps more then his coffee-scented clothing would imply. The iron-clad muscles of the war horse merely tense once more, heralding the coming of perhaps another assault, the creature half inclined to strike out at the infuriating blonde man and yet....for perhaps the first time he is given to think better of his actions. It would be- imprudent to lash out at him a second time so soon, no, it would be better to wait, to begrudgingly allow him this slight victory though the stallion will hardly be fooled by it a second time, muscles suddenly relaxing now. He will simply wait until the Hunter least expects it.

Did anyone ever tell you your a bit of a prick?

He knows the man cannot understand him and yet it would hardly take a scholar to understand that the harshly offered sound was hardly a compliment, this war between them hardly over, one foot slamming against the ground in a clear display of bad temper before his head merely flicks to the left, attempting to at least direct the Hunter (slightly more politely then before) up the road and the way he clearly wants him to go, waiting now for the man to move before proceeding to....walk beside him in a manner almost tame, pausing only long enough to lower his head to his limbs once more, inspecting the damage done to his forelegs, the better part of his night sure to be spent with a pair of tweezers plucking splinters from them. Bastard. Yet he is hardly foolish enough to allow the man a second victory, waiting for Alexander to wander past him before those teeth suddenly reach out to nip him entirely upon his rear end- content to rebel against having been knocked down though it is decidedly less violent than before, the equine content to remain difficult as he simply prances ahead, remaining ever out of the other man's reach, leading him further and further up the street, it is a good mile or so to where Frost plans to take him and yet what Alexander does not know is hardly going to hurt him, the headstrong animal reaching out to snatch at the mans clothing any time he proceeds to stop for to long. It should hardly take long to train this man to follow properly....

The best war horses have always been the most difficult ones.