Zsoka

I live the death of the young and the free

She is not the only one running in this wood.

Zsoka calls himself the master of the body because, for now, in this dreamworld of which he is unaware, he is in control. He is unhindered, free, and weightless. The earth that rises to greet him with every bound is like a soft cushion or a layer of cloud. And no longer does that twisted leg bungle each step, no longer does it slow his motion and trip his walk, his run, his flight.

Because, after all, what use does a bird have for running on the ground?

Every churn of the shoulder is a flap of a set of black wings--a wide wingspan that carries him gracefully closer to the center of the deep woods. This place has so much meaning to the one who was once in control of this form, but Zsoka holds no such attachments. The woods are merely a place to stretch his wings, long silken feathered capes with primaries tracing lines in the pine needles dotting the red ground.

When the familiar mare appears before him, his heart lifts. How good it is to see her! He feels as if it has been years, as if this moment of this sighting is his freedom from a cage. His wings tuck as the trees grow closer and he watches her play her game, awkwardly trying to imitate it, in awe of the magic that rises at her side. Knox's jaded presence is gone, for this moment of pleasure.

"Bird, slow down!" he whinnies out into the wood, trying to catch up with her, feeling as if she will never stop running, as if she will never turn to greet him. The thought brings an anger to him, childish and familiar, but when he tries to grasp at its source he finds his mind to be muddled. That memory, that grudge, is gone in this land of feathers and fun.

His wings fold and he runs on their joints as if they were legs, hobbling in an awkward, hopping sort of way, and panting at the exertion of the run. "Bird, slow down! Turn, look, I'm like you now!"

But somewhere in a dark corner this dream is a nightmare. Knox cannot find Manhattan, and Zsoka's lack of care has left her out of this unnatural world. She is gone, and with it the hunter's last tether. Somewhere, in his lost mind, every step of his ancestor's run is a sharp stab of pain and a deadening, increasing weight of four white wings wrapped about the forelegs and neck: choking, pulsing, screaming as the ghost of their body clutches him to remind him of a murder.


[[Dream thread that will be remembered upon waking and have bearing on character development. Knox is dressed as Zsoka. Zsoka thinks his forelegs are wings (and sees them as such--others may as well), is unaffected by his limp leg, and has forgotten why he was ever mad at Isopia. Knox sees the wings as Muriel's wings, covered in blood, and imagines that he is being choked by her ghost. Manhattan is not present.]]

Zsoka

I live the death of the young and the free

He draws closer. He stops. His whole body, small, innocent, and adorned, is a quivering dream, a wraith-like waif of childhood. Zsoka slows only when he is beside her, stops only when he can feel her heat radiating against his. His hind hooves, small and sharp, cut into the soft soil and his fore-wings flare to fill and cease with air.

She's the same bird he remembered, still thinking more than he could ever imagine would be fun, but she is kinder, maybe. Or was she always like this? He isn't sure. She calls him beautiful and his lips turn up and part with a faint whinny. Beautiful?

He starts to walk, the joints of his wings rising and falling upon the dirt. The lake is there, the same one from before. Or is it a pond? And was it always there?

Zsoka looks down at his own reflection, sees the majesty of which she speaks, and dives in. "I am!" he cries out through the sound of water's rise and decay, "I'm beautiful, and so are you!"

The water is a cushion, a warm hug and kiss from a mother he doesn't remember. He stretches out his wings and floats somehow, on his back like a dead fish, belly up like a kitten. She's telling him something, bird is. Something about their differences.

But what differences are there? No, he can't think of any. He's a bird and so is she, nothing fills him with more joy.

It's his bridle that she singles out, his bridle that she references. And it is only then that he remembers its weight on his features, its awkward tan dangling as it hangs over his too-small façade. "This?" he questions, his head jerking up to look back at Isopia on the shore, "this is just my pop's old junk," he says with a smile and a little wiggle of his hindquarters, nickering as the cool water swishes about with his tail.

She's silly, bird. Always thinking too much. But that's ok, because he needs someone to think for him, sometimes. And the one who normally would is drowning, being pulled deeper underwater by five corpses all hungry and angry, all made up of white, wings, and fire.



[[No worries, windows 10 takes getting used to and I'm working with it too. Sorry I didn't see this tag til now! It's also not my best, my Knox muse has been suffering but I'm trying to get something out for people anyway.
Q: Is Iso just using dreamworldness to feel out that stuff about Knox's bridle and magic? Cause it isn't common knowledge and he actually keeps it all quite secret/wouldn't have told her about it and let her know. If she wants to have a vague sense of it in dream that's fine but irl I'm not sure how she could have that knowledge.]]