His bladder is empty and the tension he felt temporarily relieved. Zsoka is, if nothing else, proud of his golden accomplishment. He smiles with a wicked sort of pleasure as the urine soaks the earth and spills between the big mare's hooves. He likes his hooves--they are attached to him, and therefor something he enjoys. Hers look clunky, like paperweights or dull rocks that deceive you when wet under the river's current. He doesn't like her--and he doesn't like her damn hooves, either.

She keeps talking. She keeps saying things. She is a pain in his small rear ass, and Zsoka knows within an instant of her opening her mouth again, of her showing off her magic (magic that some part of him, some Knox in him, does not marvel at in the slightest) and mocking him with that watery dance, that he is through with her.

He has not come to these woods to be lectured or talked down to. He is intelligent. Maybe the mare doesn't know it, but he's been existence for much longer than she. He is ageless in his death, and what is she to him but some stupid tribrid with dumb dots on her face and a weird box full of water?

Zsoka frowns. "Normal horses just drink water. Normal birds just drink water. But you ain't either of them and you just play with it and you just be mean all the time."

The colt was not eloquent, but he was thorough in his distaste. He turned, lifting his tail and starting to trot away. His weak leg trembled and as he moved, humming with his ancestor's instinct to cause Manhattan to follow, he casts her a look of utter disappointment.

"Big bird like you... you shoulda been fun."

And without knowing what impact those words might have, without knowing how inconsequential they might be, he turns and trots into the wood until he is under it shadow and out of her sight. And then he is faster, he is brighter, he is older, and he is Knox, big and strong, and he is running, and he is whooping, and he is laughing with Manhattan at his side and he is free, for a moment, in that childish bliss Zsoka has blessed him with.

Happiness strikes him swift and true, like a bullet from an old, hot gun.

[[@[Isopia]--Sorry... he's impatient and difficult to control.]]
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