There is a lot for Zsoka to dance around, and a long way for him to stumble and fall if he falters on his weak foreleg. But he is confident, and Knox's tempered age soothes the ancestor to stillness just as he is about to straighten and frolic once more.

Be still, youngest one.

Zsoka snaps his head back as if looking for Knox and searching for the voice. For a moment, he cares nothing for the mare before him. It is only when she begins speaking, her words striking the dark of the early-day air, that her turns back to her. She says a lot of big words and Zsoka is disappointed that they are the first thing he has heard her speak.

When she gonna talk sense? he thinks, not realizing fully how much of an audience that one thought has. He shivers when Manhattan sidles alongside him, her soft coat a warm comfort on his wobbly, awkward right leg. The colt frowns, but not at the touch of the hidden companion. Rather, he is disappointed, still, in the mare.

He ignores all question and spits. The gob lands short of her but right beside the box, perhaps splattering onto it. She didn't answer any of his questions. He kicks dust onto the wet spot of his own creation. She was only asking more, and hard ones that he didn't know how to answer.

"You're weird," the young one says with upset, perhaps stemming from betrayal and a failure for this mare to meet expectations, hanging on the edge of his words. Upset because she is not what he had hoped, not a bird but one third of an equine, whatever that means, as if everyone wasn't an equine.

It is dumb. He feels full, full of air and nothing else but needing, very suddenly, to piss. When had he last had anything to eat or drink? Zsoka frowns again, and his intention becomes very suddenly clear. He steps forward towards the mare and the box, his face braver than it should be.

Zsoka, don't!

It is too late. The little colt has let loose his bowels, producing a hot stream of urine aimed, he hopes, directly at the fruit of the mare's labors. Manhattan side-steps the smell and the sound, shaking her head in an uncontrolled disappointment. But should she have stopped this? Let him have his play. She echoes her master's thoughts in her own again, a reminder.

And for Zsoka, this literal pissing contest, this narrow-eyed stare directly into her eyes, is play. Quietly he whispers, his lips barely moving and the words seeming to come straight from the black of his eyes and the stream of his piss:

"I don't like you."

[[SORRY Isopia AND YOUR BOX. You can play it as having missed or have her move it or whatever, I tried to make that clear. ]]