Young murderer feels foolish. He cannot know her, she cannot be who he thought. Would she not recognize him as well- ask how he has been, wonder upon his blindness, call him by his name? This mare, Ophelia, she calls herself, does not know him, and neither can he know her.

Her head jerks back and his does the same. Foolish of him to think it his place to draw even as close as he had. Many are sensitive, few as tactile as he. He relies on touch like a child groping for its toy, even with his sight. The sense of feel is his most valuable- the same sense that leaves his skin hot and crawling after the kill. And the scent of it all- the acrid stench of blood countered by the mare's saccharine odor. It is overwhelming and has lead him to forget. He steps backwards with care, toes dancing upon the sand with practiced grace as he edges respectfully away. She speaks to Manhattan kindly and he cannot help but let the dour downturn of his lips shift.

His body lowers and aches to be near his bonded in this time of separation. Teeth grind and a low whinny forms from his tongue, rolling out into the open and calling her back. She returns, but reluctantly. She has taken to the unfamiliar mare, and watches the silver dragon with perked ears and a curious expression. Knox listens with care, considering her words and treating them like gentle, dying things in the night. Has she forgotten then? Still, the chances of her being the one and the same... Manhattan is simply being friendly.

And strangely enough, so is he. "Chances are you two were once bonded," the old colt proffers wisely, lifting his head and nickering towards Tinek. Perhaps the dragon is as friendly as she says; it would be strange to feel the touch of scales for the first time against his blood-marked, dappled skin; new and exciting to experience the famed gentle ways of the dragon. But he cannot allow himself too fall to deep into distraction; her question to him remains. Has he forgotten? Perhaps some, yes; but not all. "For a time, the Goddess of the Moon took from me my sight. I met a mare who led me to safety and shelter; to a place where I could heal. I thought you may have been she, but it seems neither of us are in the position to say for sure if we might know each other," he says, speaking slightly more than usual- feeling more at ease than usual.

The scent of blood on his flesh has begun to fade; the image of the dead haunting him is leaving. "Though... I don't think it matters," Knox says then. He is different now than he was before. Darker, perhaps, but she seems to be the same. They are all changing, at all times. Manhattan, leaning on hind legs and striking up at the air as she squats in a mock-hunters stance, barking playfully at the dragon, is still the apple of his eye, even without her emotions occupying his cold heart. "Whatever faint memories may remain, perhaps we should simply start anew," the dark young thing says as he looks on and out, over the ocean. His eyes mirror its blue, and as he turns to her they carry with him a strange, twisted sort of hope. Strange that a murderer, one so intimate with death and his part to play, can feel such hope after so long a time lived in darkness.