Strange Stallion gathers himself from his bed of snow and buried bones to answer his mother's call. It is strange how penetrating it is, how it finds him anywhere and everywhere. She is far enough that he must run to find her, but close enough that her call for murder rings in his ears. His hooves thunder across the earth and tear at the ground, shaking it with each turn of muscle and shift of bone. There is a clamoring followed by the faint sound of paws tearing at soft soil and kicking up snow, until it at last grows still.

His mother is not far ahead, standing tall and imposing as she watches a weakened pair in the near distance. Knox does not feel, can not smile or feel remorse for the task ahead of him. "Would you prefer the poor beasts see their ends, mother?" the young thing remarked coldly and calculatingly as he looked over the innocents with his gray-blue eyes of a storm. His tail flicked and Manhattan saw the command in even the slightest of his movements. At her feet the unpredictable magic of terror swirled and threatened to leap forth. "Should I let them keep their sight, we can make it a wretched one."

He felt cold and empty. He became aware of the fact that he was a villainous sinner about to kill, but could feel no remorse. The moon of his god shone above and his bridle glowed a bright green in the night. He stood tall now, almost as tall as his father had been; almost as majestic. His eyes were edged in the silver of his magic, his thoughts were dipped in poison. He sidles alongside his mother, lets his breath brush across her shoulder blades. He waits.

Strange Stallion is told to wait, but the silence brought on leaves him uncomfortable and at odds. It is Manhattan that breaks the emptiness, and her magic that dances across the snow to greet the mare named Tillas. The target; the walking dead. His companion stays still, eyes fixed ahead, body stuck rigid behind his mother. She must concentrate to keep the illusion of Tillas' fear alive; she must concentrate so that the magic will not turn on her. It was strange to him that his mother wants the filly untouched, but he shook his head and let it be. Best not to interfere with her orders.

Knox walks forth, parting the sea of snow and letting his massive shadow break its white sheen. He walks towards the mare, watches as she shakes and bleeds. This is his first kill; he knows it will be an easy one. Nearby the filly stands, and he feels her fear. But she shall know no more; silver slips from his vision into hers, blinding her from the sight of her mother's death. It is a sight none should see.

Strange Stallion lets his body slip beside the victim's, lets his breath stroke her cheek. He touches her as if she is a lover, lets droplets of her blood cross the line of his lips. There is beauty in the latticework of her fear, but there is pain.

"You are safe," he whispers into her ear. A lie, but one worth telling. Shadow folds behind him in glorious sheets, building the unknown mare's greatest fear from Manhattan's magic. "I will protect you from this."

With gentle ease he reaches to pass his lips across her neck. He presses them to her flesh to form a sort of kiss, as if she is a long lost friend he is wishing well on her way. Then lips part and teeth clench, gently at first. In a moment, the stallion jerks and twists, and waits to hear the crack of her neck hidden in the thunder of her fall.

In the near distance, the filly is blinded and for once, alone.

[[Permission to blind. Permission to terrorize. Permission to kill.]]

Strange stallion cannot feel remorse for his actions. Mother at last speaks the words every one of her sons longs to hear. The words of acceptance and a strange sort of kindness that seal a colt's fate. She says he is her son, she looks upon him with pride and perhaps a bit of love. But he does not feel like her son, he does not feel as if she is his mother.

For he is the son of Roanne the Sentinel. He holds the memories of his father and the memories of freedom- a knowledge of revenge prevails. It was a foolish thing to feed him the Sentinel's blood and gift him with his bridle. Nevermore will he be his mother's son, for he knows what lies beyond the life at her command.

Still he cannot smile. His situation is as such that there is little to do but condemn himself to this life and push aside the guilt. he leaves the corpse with a parting glance and strides closer to his mother. The threat of physical contact is neither revolting or appealing, but he reaches for brush his cheek against her neck nonetheless. He remembers the feel of the kill, the stone cold silence and the emptiness he felt. There was no rush or high; it had been as simple as taking a breath. Now he stands close to his mother, just as he had done before with Tillas. He considers how simple it could be to snap her neck, how unsuspecting she might be and how freeing it might be.

Manhattan interrupts his sociopathy with a gentle whine and a nudge of her head against his leg. She is hungry and anxious; the magic has left her weak and frightened. Strange stallion backs away to look Mother in the eye; he sees nothing there, feels nothing from them. Beside him Manhattan pants and whines; rises on hind legs to lean against him and run claws along his flesh. She longs for the chase of a hunt, yet Knox knows better than to let her do anything other than rest now.

"I must tend to her, Mother," he says swiftly and coldly. There is no emotion in his tone, there is nothing. "The magic has left her weak and the kill has left me weary- shall we retire? If it would be your wish, we might first feast upon a kill." His eyes wander over the still corpse. He feels no irksome sense at the thought of eating the flesh of the slain. He has drunk blood before, has now snapped a neck and watched another die by his will. What difference would a meal make?