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]]