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The Commander's once pure white coat is splattered with red. Manhattan, starved, tears hungrily and greedily at the poor, young fox, which her master has blinded and killed. Curious for the taste, the lawful ancestor curves his neck down to the earth. His flaring nostrils take in fresh scents of death and blow away particles of dust as he edges closer. His silken mane falls over his eyes, tenting his vision and leaving the day around him filtered through the curtain of his hair. His lips find purchase, and his teeth grind against the meet naturally, as if it was something they were always intended to do. Manhattan growls and tears at the flesh, coating herself and her master, who stands uncomfortably tall in his eldest form, in fresh spurts of hot blood.
The taste of the meat slides down Cem's throat easily, satisfying Knox's hunger and fulfilling the first's curiosity. Still, as the pair enjoy their meal, they are alert. Manhattan jerks upwards suddenly, and the playful growl that accompanied her game of the meal now turns darker. Her bark signals the coming of an intruder, and Knox understands in an instant that he must act. Slowly and deliberately, the hunter bends the body of the first to obey, and Cem falls softly to his aging knees. Knox instructs his bonded swiftly and with clarity, so that, begrudging as she is to give up her prize, Manhattan drags the bleeding fox to lay across Cem's broad and powerful back. Its torn open stomach and chest spill out onto the ground and spread messily across Cem's broad form, staining him further with deep red and the faint black lines of entrails.
Knox walks forth, following Manhattan as she creates a trail from the scraps of scent. Bloody pawprints mix with the dirt to create thick, black marks in her wake. From its place upon Cem's back, the fox watches with lifeless eyes wide open as it is torn from its final resting place; from it's spit-coated lips, a trail of blood marks the path of a killer.
He arrives before the intruder with a stoic expression painted upon his finely carved face; the depths of his cold are found in the fading blue of his icy eyes, locked beneath the tight, fresh leather of an ancient bridle of the old country. Manhattan stands proud at his side, her blue eyes and poison-dripping jaws glinting in forest light. At her feet, faint mists of illusion threaten to conjure the greatest fear of the poor soul that has come to stand so small before of the mighty pair. The dark, warning words of the hunter rumble in Cem's throat and then strike the open air. "You'd best be leaving."
Whether it be the corpse lain across his back or the magic dancing threateningly at his companion's feet, the message is clear: This is his first and final warning.
KNOX and MANHATTAN
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