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11-29-2012, 07:51 PM
This is Knox's first kill! Oh my little boy, growing up, with the first spray of blood on his soul that has remained clean to this day, even if quite obedient. We stand, the seconds ticking by, fast but loud, in this bare, cool day as the white mare staggers on. Blood, droplets of it, beads on the snow under her silver feet. If she notices us, she does not give a hint of it, until her body stiffens and her eyes widen to expose a ring of white around those icy irises. I glance at Knox, and sure enough, there is his companion doing his work. I would like to compliment the dog on her work, but it must be difficult to do such an illusion, for Manhattan is straining with concentration, and I remain silent.
He has grown in his first year of life, grown so much, almost an image of his cursed father. 16 hands now? Perhaps a little more, little less. His frame has filled out beautifully, he stands so strongly and silently, the gleam of the sun glistening on his ebony coat and silver dapples. But not for long. The others have not answered soon enough, and as it is, it is rightfully Knox's time to kill. The petrified filly wanders a little away, fearful, blinded likely. Tillas is shaking, nervous, scared. I told her she would regret insulting me, regret protecting the insolent filly she named Edana. And now my revenge is rightfully mine, and now Knox will have his first death on his hands as it should be. I watch my handsome boy caress her, coo to her, and then kill her.
I watch in dark pleasure as the mare falls. I can almost hear the subtle snap of the bones in her neck cracking under the strain my Knox has given her. Yes, this is beautiful day, stained as it is by the red dripping out onto the snow, wine spilled on the fine dining cloth. Somewhere, the filly begins to run, lost. Her cries of fear do not conjure pity in me, and instead, I pad up to Knox's kill. I dip a black paw into one of the wounds leaking crimson, turn to face my big son. I stand, precariously, but I manage to run the red line of blood down his forehead, and I turn to the dog as well, landing on my forelegs heavily. For her, I carefully apply the red down her snout, avoiding the use of my claws.
"Both of you have done well. Knox, you are truly my son." My words are quiet, filled with dark twisted love.
He has grown in his first year of life, grown so much, almost an image of his cursed father. 16 hands now? Perhaps a little more, little less. His frame has filled out beautifully, he stands so strongly and silently, the gleam of the sun glistening on his ebony coat and silver dapples. But not for long. The others have not answered soon enough, and as it is, it is rightfully Knox's time to kill. The petrified filly wanders a little away, fearful, blinded likely. Tillas is shaking, nervous, scared. I told her she would regret insulting me, regret protecting the insolent filly she named Edana. And now my revenge is rightfully mine, and now Knox will have his first death on his hands as it should be. I watch my handsome boy caress her, coo to her, and then kill her.
I watch in dark pleasure as the mare falls. I can almost hear the subtle snap of the bones in her neck cracking under the strain my Knox has given her. Yes, this is beautiful day, stained as it is by the red dripping out onto the snow, wine spilled on the fine dining cloth. Somewhere, the filly begins to run, lost. Her cries of fear do not conjure pity in me, and instead, I pad up to Knox's kill. I dip a black paw into one of the wounds leaking crimson, turn to face my big son. I stand, precariously, but I manage to run the red line of blood down his forehead, and I turn to the dog as well, landing on my forelegs heavily. For her, I carefully apply the red down her snout, avoiding the use of my claws.
"Both of you have done well. Knox, you are truly my son." My words are quiet, filled with dark twisted love.
