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The Young's mind is the curious creature that occupies the forefront of the hunter's mind. He and his companion drag their bodies through the grass, exhausted from a day of missed opportunities and wasted hours. Manhattan seems frustrated with Zsoka's childish ways, but she can say nothing against it. The colt himself frolics in Knox's firm, muscled figure. When on any other day the hunter would have tread softly and slowly, Zsoka suddenly brings Knox to a full gallop through the heavenly fields. Manhattan's warning barks- portents of a stranger- mean nothing to the childlike wonder overtaking Knox's usual cold and common sense.
Light seems to surround the dark figure of Knox, taking him in and out of view as his newfound magic flickers on and off. The cloak is effective but, under Zsoka's control, garish. The 8 month old mind causes the camouflage to glimmer and shine until Knox is merely a mirage flickering in and out of sight and consciousness. It is Manhattan's growl, the careful scrape of her poison-ridged teeth along her possessed master's hocks, that at last stops the Young from pulling the strings of the puppet any longer. Knox stands then, brutally exposed, under the bright light. In the cold of an Orangemoon wind, the massive black draft shivers at Zsoka's instinct. He seems weak- he appears foolish. Manhattan sulks in his bright shadow and eyes the pegasus mare with suspicion. It is clear that Zsoka will soon make a fool of Knox's good character and smear his stony reputation; the mutt only hopes that this mare won't take the experience of the odd encounter elsewhere.
Slowly, Manhattan's faint poison dulls Zsoka's meddlesome consciousness and Knox regains control of himself. It is too late now, he is too clearly outlined by the sun, too darkly casting a shadow across the features of the grey before him, but he still does what he can to be unseen. He seems to slink backwards and away from her- it becomes quite clear that he has no desire to spend much time in her company. Still, the hunter hears the mischievous nickering of Zsoka like a call. He cannot force himself to go far, and so he dwells, doing what he can to keep his mouth clamped shut and the words of his youngest ancestor within his head.
[[Sorry this is a bit of a scatterbrained post.]]
KNOX and MANHATTAN
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