The feeling of the hunter's chest (so hollow and aching but somehow still strong) pressing against her hip sings victory in his mind. In this fumbling dark any contact is a blessing, and any successful strike is a testament to skill.

But Knox's skill is unearned, perhaps even imagined. For when has he fought, save for in the days of his youth? Once, before his time, he was challenged. Knox was a child then, nothing more than a colt. Since he has murdered, but what sort of challenge is the destruction of the weak?

For the first time, the dark hunter fights the strong. He fights the strong when he is at his weakest, when he is alone and half his heart is empty. It beats hollow, and where once its even thumps were calmed by an echo they now land muffled in endless silence.

His shimmering and shadowy cloak fades when his body meets the enemy's, the brief moments of its effectiveness gone from this world of no comfort. Outside of that blanket the hunter is vulnerable; Huric's dark pink eyes roll and his young lips shine white with spittle. Knox presses on but speed has never been a strength of his. He has the power to wound with sheer collision and be more numb to the impact, but not the quickness to recover. Were he granted Huric's skill along with his form, perhaps he could have escaped--perhaps.

That, however, is not the case. It is no surprise then that the singing, sparking whip finds Knox with ease. It was a mistake for him to slow and look back, to shine his whites in this dim and try and find the traces of the monster in the dark. It is vision and touch that he hopes to rely on, with all scent masked and impossible to distinguish from death, but it is his dependence upon it that leaves him vulnerable.

Had Knox kept moving and found her some other way, he might have avoided the stinging bite of the whip. Instead it cracks, striking him square on the rump, just to the left of his ancestor's silken tail, and leaving an anxious burn that sends a cry out from betwixt his lips. His nostrils widen but do not inhale, the breath instead leaving his lungs in forced shock.

His mind, many minds, reel and contort. Press on, the martyred Huric demands. Press on.

It isn't advice, it's a command. There is no other option, Knox cannot give in. As much as he wishes, as much as the burn hurts and the cry cannot be contained, he must press on. Even in the dim light, the shimmering, silvery-gold of the whip cannot be missed. He follows its slim line like a beacon, chasing after its owner even as the burnt skin on his back rubs against itself and scratches at the inside of his flesh. The sensation is unique but not unfamiliar; his ancestors have felt this before.

Doing the best that he can in the dim, Knox lumbers after his opponent. The movements are not graceful, and with Huric's svelte body as his mask they seem uncharacteristically slow. They are not directed towards anything in particular, they seek only the last vision of the whip returning to the body that bears it. As moonlight fades from that patch of earth, so too do Knox's chances of striking.

If, though, he somehow succeeds, he might find himself back on her left and parallel to her form. Wherever he is, his proud head twists to his right and his ancestral white teeth--like fangs in their mercilessness--snap down, hopefully somewhere upon her flesh or even the same part of her hip he had bruised before.

There is nothing more that Knox wants, that Knox needs, than this fight. Surely there is no explanation, no justice or reasoning, but this is what the stallion must do. This monster's offense is so slight but its damage irreparable; he views her as a nemesis long hated and feared.

It's not her fault, that hate. His eyes roll and his breath is a heavy pant, his rump burns and his heart is an abandoned, fragile thing. His every manifestation of loneliness, of desperation, could not possibly be her fault. The hunter wants it to be, though. Everyone, especially the ancient and lost, needs someone to blame.

""