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I have wandered back to this forlorn site some time ago, leaving the Foothills, peaceful as I believe, with my sons. I am glad to see Tajheri has joined us, finally realizing his place is not fighting shades in Isilme. Evers is... Evers, as usual. Knox has made his first kill. Archibald is practicing his fighting skills, a fact which I am pleased to see. Glad? No. I don't feel... glad. Glad is too light for my dark ways.
The bones are white. Stripped clean, from elements or predators; a crisp, uniform white against the black of the deep forest floor. I can remember him, the Sentinel, the one enraptured by my dark charm. Does he watch over his son from his death? I resist the urge to laugh at such thoughts. He never suspected... just like the others who have sired my sons. The few that dared give me a filly; well, they suffered as they deserved in the moments before their death.
I stand there for hours near the white bones, long enough that night falls and sun rises and night falls again. Even during daylight, the forest is so entombed in darkness light does not pierce the canopy woven thickly of black leaves. The ground remains in its black shadow, remains soft and rustling to warn me of any other's approach.
I am resting a hoof, stone eyes sharp as ever, letting the last thoughts of him and Knox come through my head when an ebony shadow detaches itself from the cloak of darkness. No, not fully obsidian, for that muscled neck so reminiscent of his father's cursed form is dappled with glistening silver. Then there is a second, smaller form tagging behind my son, the dog Manhatten, who, if I remember correctly, was attacked by Archibald as my sons had argued. That had been a pitiful day.
"Knox." I finally say after observing his teeth close around the bone. What, I wonder, has driven him here to all places? Why does he come to lift the clean white bone of his father off the ground? Does he wish to carry a piece of his sire around with him? If so, I will not be pleased. I am his mother, he should not need anyone else but I and his brothers. "Knox." I repeat, stepping from the welcoming darkness cast by the oak I had hidden behind in my silent vigil over the white bones. "What are you doing here?" One may have thought shouting would be more effective for frightening. But an angry killer is never as terrifying as a cold killer.
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I Was Walking With a Ghost [Mandrake, Wilder]
