Argent looked to the sudden sound off in the distance. Her animal eyes caught sight of a shape in the shadows of the treeline. It was a... horse with a horn. No, that wasn't the right word. It was a... something or other. She'd figure it out sooner or later. Perhaps unwisely, the pint-sized huntress opted to take the time to ponder the truth of what it meant to be a horse. Argent had seen seahorses before. They had no legs. Or arms. And the dudes got pregnant with a fuckload of kids at once, which was weird. 

Oh, and they also lived in the water.

...

Yes. She could now confirm, without a shadow of a doubt, that the charging equine was, indeed, [i]not[/i] a seahorse. She wasn't an [i]idiot[/i]. It like a narwhal with legs, obviously. Which, of course, meant that she was going to [i]kill the fuck out of it.[/i] Narwhal ivory was worth a fuck-ton of money man. She could like, buy... a bunch of useful shit with that kind of dough. Like dust or something. Probably not dust. 

Argent hefted up her large, thick anchor and triggered the form change to a harpoon gun. As the arms folded inward, she raised the gun and aimed in the direction of the not!seahorse. [color=silver]"...Wait a goddamn..."[/color] Argent narrowed her eyes as she stared down the sights of her harpoon gun. There was something off about that strange, narwhalish not!seahorse, but she couldn't exactly tell what it was from this dis- [color=silver]"What the fucking hell?"[/color] 

Argent quickly leapt backwards and fired her harpoon into a tree opposite her, creating a makeshift tripwire for the incoming Grimm-mount. Just as she did so, she heard the clarion call of [color=00a651]"I'm gunna getcha!"[/color], which flummoxed her greatly. For a huntress, this individual's choice of tactic was very ineffective. How would she "get" the Grimm if she was mounted on it already? Perhaps she was simply unable to violently impale the beast and feed on its corpse until it dissolved, like a real man's man would. If that was the case, Argent would be driven to pity this individual on principle.

Only after the Grimm did a sick flip after running into her wire, though. There was no room for pity on the field of battle. Between pity and pure, unadulterated violence that would make cinemas give a recording of it at least an R rating, there was only room for one of them in the metaphorical town of battle.