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There is something predatory in my hard, gray eyes as I watch him, unmoving, uncaring, a statue; one might call me unloving, punishing, but I only intend to take in, to create horses who may do something; I guide them, not tear them down, even if it takes pain to make something brilliant. Joints popped and creaked under me as I took a step closer, the muscles in my graying legs squealing with pain. But every route to greatness took blood and time, so I ignored the shrill protests.
He has grown in the time he has gone. An inch taller than me, chiseled features, looking as if he was carved from blue-gray stone slowly weathered to white along his hind end. Or, maybe, the gray statue was caught in a snowstorm, leaving snow and cream in a blanket over my son's rump. A mane, thin and long and black, really quite similar to Evers'- but Evers did not have a glass horn, a delicate spiral, twisting up from his forehead, with the slightest of curves to it. A perfect weapon for gutting and opening and wounding, but I knew my sons- he was too weak, so often, to be able to fight like the Dauntless or Emerson. Or even Knox. In some ways, Kipp looked quite like his father; but his father's coat was dark earth, and his horn the same, with his leonine tail cut off smoothly.
"You didn't know how to find me." I say, lips curling in disgust. This is not even an excuse, this is not worthy of being anything more than dirt. "You deserve a punishment." I snarl, stepping closer. The grass gives way under me, terrified.
I reach out, aiming to bite his ear, crush it between my teeth- should he dare to avoid, he will suffer much worse under claws and fangs of a jaguar.
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