See this, and see it very well.

An old worn shape is just standing there, in the middle of the ice field. His head is low, so low in fact that his warm steamy breath is slowly melting the hard ice-shell which has encompassed the ground here. Why is he just standing there? If you asked, he would philosophically respond, Why not? And why not indeed? Having befriended the once-Ice-King Mauja, Myrddin took the first baby-step into possibly becoming part of a herd again. Almost immediately however, the herd who had so quickly welcomed him in, had been cast out of their homeland. Myrddin did not fully understand the dispute, but felt frustrated that he had not been here sooner. Perhaps he could have counseled the young King, as Myrddin had seen many wars in his long life. But now, he was once again wandering.

The old stallion’s chest moved in and out steadily – one of the few signs that he was actually alive, and not simply frozen in place. A layer of frost has formed on his gnarled and twisted horn, showing that he must have been standing here for quite some time. Myrddin was lost in thoughts of the family that he recently lost – what else, other than a devastatingly tragic event, would cause such an decrepit old geezer like Myrddin, to venture off on his own?

       Strong colt made his way to the Frostbreath Steppe in the company of his companion and the snow. The terror haunted her still in the shape of waking dreams that Knox could only sometimes glimpse. He feared for her most days, cradled her at night and soothed her with the quiet comfort of whispered stories. Stories of the old country where he'd never been, stories of a once great stallion who fought through everything only to die at his mother's will. In the dark and frigid nights he told her of the magic there, of those gifted with the power to shapeshift, to poison, to even breathe fire, and what it cost them.

And for a time the stories helped. The young pup's curiosity waxed as her master's waned, and the tales were enough to satisfy her and keep the terror at bay. As long as none of it was real, she was content. It was only when the colt told her the story of the bridle passed down through a family of survivors, the bridle that shifted to match each new owner and whispered memories of their ancestors, that she understood.

Days were worse than ever after that, when she realized none of it was fiction. The bridle itself became an object she feared, for it marked the death of many in the past; foreshadowed those of the future. All around her she began to see shifting images of the phooka, lasting only for brief moments, but lasting long enough to send her into a fit of howling and shaking. At night she dared not sleep, she lay awake haunted and guarding.

Too many nights without rest left her too weary to carry herself, and so when Knox journeyed to show her the peace of freshly fallen snow, she rode upon his back. His steps were slow and gentle, his mind always conscious of her precarious position. He would look back at her often, so much to the point that he lost sight of what lay ahead. But Manhattan saw what was there before them; she always saw.

And thus the old and gentle beast before them with the twisted and gnarled horn became the image of a phooka. Manhattan began to whine and cry and struggled to run as the elder's eyes turned gold; as his horn and his body became splattered in blood. His eyes shone gold, gold, pupilless, empty, and soulless gold. The eyes of a phooka, the image of a shapeshifter.

Knox did not have the split second to see Myrrdin as he truly was; in the time it took him to turn his head and look forward, Manhattan's magic had already done its work. And so blue eyes met the image of gold ones, and the master and his ward instantly saw the face of their fear.

The reaction was uncontrollable, the results evident. Faced by his greatest fear, Knox's eyes turned silver and then, in an instant, magic cut through frostfall air and the old stallion was blinded only a moment before the terror faded away and the draft learned of his mistake.



[[Permission to blind permanently]]

Of all the things that Myrddin had witnessed in his long life, these final images - his final moments of seeing, were rushed and blurred. Yet in the days to come, they would sharpen and the image of what happened, would become clear behind his now sightless eyes.

The air was still and cool and brought the heavy foot steps of the colt to Myrddin's ears even before the youngster came into view. Maybe, if Myr hadn't been so lost in his own cacophony of thoughts, things might have been different. Maybe, if he had moved, rather than just stood there, allowing the pup's hallucination to fully envelope his shape, things might have been different. Maybe - but Myrddin would not let these thoughts linger. What happened, happened. There was no going back now.

What an image this was to see, although we can assume that Myrddin may never appreciate the artistic beauty of how these events unfolded: Myrddin was white, Knox was black, or nearly so - his strange dappling did not take away from the stark contrast of the two. While Myrddin was a little taller than the colt, Knox's fullness easily made him look just as tall as the slender old stallion. Then their was the dog - Myr barely had time to even sense the change in the creature - he was too busy lazily letting his mind drift and mull on how it appeared that as the pup rode on the colt, how they seemed to blend together, like some weird hybrid.

Then there was nothing.

The world did not fade away, but instead seemed to rock and brighten all at once. As his sight vanished, Myrddin staggered sideways as if his centre of gravity had somehow shifted. Head low, as it was when the pair arrived, Myr staggered for breath as he tried to comprehend what had just happened. He didn't immediately perceive that he had been blinded - everything had suddenly become much louder and much colder, as if his other senses, rather than gradually becoming stronger, had surged into overdrive, even if only momentarily. And it was only momentarily, sadly. The world hushed back to the quiet it had been only moments ago - what did the world care, that one stallion had lost his sight?

Raising his head, Myrddin stood tall - his eyes were wide and now were filled with a chillingly blank look - murky white was beginning to cloud over his once deep twilit' eyes. He surveyed the general direction that he remembered the colt and pup to be, eventually settling his gaze a little left of them, and a little too high. In a voice that did not (would not) shake, Myrddin spoke: "I would have your names". His voice was solemn and stern, but not necessarily angry. Or maybe just not yet.


[Permission to permanently blind :)]