The raven is not the only shifter in the deep woods.

Knox arrives after leaving the threshold, his shoulders low and slumped, his body a living ache. He keeps Manhattan close, beckoning her with consistent flicks of his his long, thick tail. At my side, the hunter beckons; at my heel.

And of course, Manhattan obeys. She could run wild through these woods if she wanted, time could never erase their map from her memory, but she knows her master needs her now. Together they are to journey to his birthplace, a bloodstained patch in the heart of this dark forest. Together, they are to journey to an unmarked, violent grave.

As they grow closer, Knox's heart quickens. He remembers every inch of this place; he passes the hollow where he first found Manhattan, and sees thick scars on the tree trunks from where his mother once sharpened her claws. It has been so long since he has graced this place--since it has dared to grace him. But now he returns with new knowledge, new sights and memories in his mind.

In his thoughts, Roanne is anxious and impatient. Isn't it true that Roanne will see what no one else has seen? Isn't it true that Roanne will feel the hollows in his own bones, the dry, gentle pits of white and gray, picked apart by carrion creatures of the wood?

No, Knox realizes, as he shifts into his father's form with a flutter of illusion and watches the world fade into darkness. Roanne won't see much of anything, in the end. Perhaps it is better that way.

The bones lie before the shifter and his companion. Manhattan gazes upon them with deserved respect; Knox with the taste of blood in his mouth. He cannot forget how once his mother pushed him face down into that pool of his father's dripping red. He will always remember the scent of suffocation and the first thing to ever touch his tongue.

Suh this is it?

Knox is silent in his own mind. He cannot bear to give his father a reply. Still connected to their bond, he urges Manhattan to lead the Sentinel closer: to touch his own bones.

The hunter knows, as he bends his father's head to the earth and inhales the scent of death, indistinguishable from dirt, that he is alone in this passion. Roanne has long since died. What exists in his mind is a fragmented, broken disease of a memory. And still it knows the ways of the Sentinel. Still, it wants to satisfy a curiosity of seeing what remains of the self after death.

The Sentinel's ghost questions his son once more: Suh here is whurr yuh drunk my blud?

Knox cannot bear to admit the truth; it is Manhattan who delivers the news with a light touch to the form of the Sentinel's muzzle. In Roanne's body, inhabited in part by his mind, Knox exhales.

Archibuld killed me. All yur bruthers, they killed yur fathur.

Knox knows this. He opens his mind, prepares to answer, but Manhattan flashes an image of a marked bird in his thoughts and all moments of introspection are discarded. Another time, Father, he answers hastily, his half-blind eyes lifted towards the sky, seeking out the blurred silhouette of the raven that Manhattan has showed him. Knox covers himself and his companion in shadow, calling to Manhattan's mind and commanding her to lead him forth. No ordinary raven has such pure white stripes along the face; he is thankful for the attentiveness of his huntress companion.

He must be swift; Knox's appearance flutters beneath the shadow and another transformation takes place, seen only by his faithful bonded. As Zekiah he runs swiftly after the shadow of the raven, his muffled hoofbeats the only sign of his existence. They cease altogether when he and Manhattan halt by the pond, his body rearing and turning so his left faces the one descending from the sky, and he watches from one clear, blue eye of the thief with fascination.

That was cruel, Zekiah snorts to the host, as if Roanne is no longer present and contemplating the reality of his own end, as if he has the right to decide what is cruel. Knox grimaces beneath the cloak as the last of the mare's body bursts.
My silence was kinder than speech, Knox insists.
Your silence is nothing. Until you have seen yourself dead, your silence will always be nothing.

And Knox says nothing once more, remembering the day when Zekiah found the the feeble body of his twin brother lying cold in that lonesome wood, and feeling every bit of pain the thief himself once felt. How long has it been since Knox has known such sorrow himself?

It has been a long time.

—
[[When Knox was shapeshifted into the form of Roanne the Sentinel he was not using his cloak, and it is possible that Isopia may have noticed him while flying overhead. He is now, however, cloaked. Full magic permissions have been granted. @[Isopia], what time of day is it in this thread?]]