Little defective colt watches from the shadows. He has come to visit the corpse of the stallion who he knows to have been his father; he comes to relive his first meal. The taste sticks to his throat with a sense of indelibility- he knows he shan't ever forget the taste. At his heels rests the nearly healed Manhattan, lying in the dark grass and almost blending in. The pair was born to live in these woods, deep, dark, and mysterious just like them. As young as she is, Manhattan is learning a life of no fear from her master. Her eyes, once a pure blue, seem to grow steely and with each passing day. His have been this way since that first taste of blood.

He sees the filly in the clearing and his head cocks to the side curiously. She brushes the corpse, seems to take in the scent of death and then acts as if she is disappointed. What did she expect death would smell like? Or had she been looking for the soul that had once burned with passion within the breast of this corpse, the remains of his father? Manhattan lifts herself from the earth and, with a light limp, brushes past Knox and out into the bushes, apparently just as curious as to the corpse's origin as the strange, blood marked filly. In the dark, his pale bridle glows and three voices speak at once, arguing clamorously about the results of their victory over the fallen Sentinel before him. He cannot make them stop this time; he is too close to the scene of his birth and his father's death. And now, standing alone amongst the trees, he watches as another defiles the very spot.

Frustrated with Manhattan but unable to call her back without making himself known, he steps forth and breaks into the dimly lit clearing to stand before the mare. Manhattan has settled before the corpse, but lays no paw upon the rotting flesh. He wonders why she does not tear at the meat hungrily, why she watches with a look of sad respect. He has not seen such emotion play across her features in days, why now, before the body of his deceased father, does she break her hold on herself?

He too gazes at the body, but only briefly. It is the filly he must face, with her pure white coat a true vision in the dark of the deep woods. Between her jaws rests a moonflower, white and pure. The voices cease their fighting to agree that nothing is pure. They warn him that she is more than she appears; he does not listen. Softly he speaks.

"Have you found what you were looking for?"