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09-28-2015, 10:21 AM
Zsoka
I live the death of the young and the free Wander too far from mama, and you run into the bad guys. Knox and Manhattan have also been presiding in these woods. In the wake of the fight with the Wolf God, they needed time as a pair to consider what had happened. Time to heal bonds, bruises, and split open wounds stinking of blood. Time to prepare themselves for returning home and receiving a horrible scolding for things that Knox barely remembered and Manhattan had not been present to witness. Everything was a blur, as far as that fight was concerned. And now black tar starts to drip achingly from his every opening. The hunter, he is not having it. Just before another arrives, he retreats into the form of a much more lighthearted creature. Zsoka, more perceptive in many ways than his host by virtue of being a child, is happy to dart about on three proper legs again. Hasn't it been some time since Knox has given himself up like this? The hunter can't remember. But the little colt can. He remembers everything that happened, even more than Knox, and he knows a certain something about magic that Knox doesn't. Zsoka knows that more power runs through him than ever before. Manhattan doesn't give a damn. She lies down in shadows of trees, barely visible, her side still burned and aching. She thinks she has lost some of herself. And so when a white filly appears after the transformation, collapsing onto the ground, she cannot even bother to flick an ear forward. Zsoka will have to go this one alone. Luckily for the white child, he is happy to. He trots closer to the tiny form, his dark eyes brightened with curiousity and blackened with the streaks of sickness. Slowly, the disease will take over his other senses. Already he sees more than he hears or smells. "Hey! Hey you! Get up!" the colt insists, reaching out to butt her side with his head, wanting to play and not lie around like this snowflake and his host's companion rather dully insist upon. "Get up! Get up, snowdrop!" "" |
