The hunter receives her voice like a call to action. Instantly Manhattan weaves between her master's legs and towards the source of the desperate, maddened cry. With Knox's mind firmly in control of his body, Manhattan is somewhat put at ease, but the stranger that approaches poses an uncomfortable threat. It is Knox, this time, who decides to interact. The hunter rolls his shoulders and sheds the magical cloak as if it is nothing more than a bothersome fly; as he emerges slowly from the shadow, he carries himself closer to the troubled mare. He feels strange, approaching her as if she is a friend.

But she is not a friend at all. She is just a sick, lonesome creature in this wretched, dying world. Her pain is almost tangible; he interprets her stance as a tacit acceptance of his approach when it is likely anything but. Unfortunately, Knox has never understood body language well, and so he walks on. His feathers trail in the cracked mud that cools and dries in the Orangemoon evening, leaving faint traces in the muck. Manhattan trots to keep up with Knox, flinging bits of pete up behind her but still staying silent. Her blue gaze flits uncomfortably back and forth between Knox and the strange mare. She trusts the hunter, but not the newcomer; she remains wary, and will for some time.

She trusts no one but him; he trusts no one but her. But others trust him, he knows this. The grey pegasus had trusted him enough to borrow his magic in return for whatever Zsoka has asked. Ophelia had trusted him when he knew no one- Tillas when she had stood unknowingly at death's door. Now he sees this vulnerable creature and feels the same pull. The pull to help her in the only way he knows how.

Like a song undetected in the midst of a crowd's chatter, silver mist drips from his eyes and climbs into those of the stranger. In the darkness of blindness, perhaps she will find calm- he hopes that she won't be spooked by his attempt. His voice becomes a guide- the soft sensation of his breathing upon her neck an attempt at a comfort. He has drawn so close to her now; so close that he can feel her body-heat burning in defiance of the Orangemoon wind.

"Are you scared?"

He says, at first, nothing else. Manhattan's tongue unfurls as poison instinctively floods her cheeks. The sick saliva drips from her powerful jaws, catching in the fur around her lips. Knox steps closer, hoping to press his warm, bridled features against the mare's neck and cheek. He casts his companion a sidelong glance, and sees the understanding in her eyes. On the command, she will know what to do.

"I can keep you safe."

His baritone is calculating and low, but there is a sense of sincerity and good intention behind every word. His hooves lift and dig into the soft earth, his tail flickers and shakes out the dirt through which it has been dragged. The soft, green glow of his bridle grounds him and leaves him feeling at peace. His eyes close; his lips part to gently brush against her crest. His voice lowers to a whisper; he pulls her closer like a lover.

"I can give you peace."