The hunter feels his vision blur as his exhaustion takes slow control of his magic. It would be easy enough to fight off the silver, but he finds a sort of comfort in it. It remains at the edges of his iris, toying with receptors and making everything a smudged blur. The painted mare becomes a dash of brown and white, turned almost gold by the light of the heart. By Knox's side, Manhattan begins to circle her master nervously. Her fear for his well being rises as his magic fluctuates and heat rises in his breast.

It is likely due to the weather or the location. Perhaps, even, the mental stress of eight new minds is what brings the sweat to his brow. Maybe it is Onni's questioning of his health that suddenly focuses his attention on the faint feverish sensation coming to the surface. He finds it unlikely that it is any sort of real sickness; the young stallion has never been sick in his life. He shakes his head in defiance, keeping the heat at bay and forcing the silver back to within his skull. His vision clears quite suddenly, and his attention returns rapidly to the mare before him. Manhattan's persistent whining is just another thing to ignore. Just like the voices, the goddamn voices.

No, nice voices. Helpful voices.
Not voices, minds! Minds minds minds, minds of ancestry and wisdom.
Dark, murderous minds.

He starts to sense himself losing his grip on things and sliding into a sort of self possessed oblivion. The voice of the mare and the pressure of Manhattan as she leans into his cannons, shivering despite the heat, ground him. His tail, a thick and wild mess of curls, lashes out and returns to strike his sturdy knees.

But the pressure of the hair alone makes him feel as if his strong body might buckle. Surely it is some effect of his magics clashing, or just exhaustion after getting such little sleep. Surely it is all in his head, for he had felt fine until Onni had mentioned his health. But what else had she said? That she does not remember him, yes. How could she? Knox only knows her through the mind of Roanne, and it is unlikely that most know Knox himself is the Sentinel's son.

Manhattan leans into his fore-legs, pushing him forward with her body and slight encouragement. He obeys, in part out of a lack of will or strength to resist, and finds himself a few tired steps closer to Onni. "No, no. No no no," Knox repeats in quick succession only barely above his breath. His blue eyes dart from the reflected light of the heart upon the earth to Onni's own figure. Her wings, her carriage. It all seems so gentle and welcoming. He has met so few kind mares in his life; she comes to him by surprise. "No," he says at last, definitively this time as he turns his gaze to meet hers with surprising intensity. "I am fine. But I don't know you, or... remember you. My father does. Did. Does- I'm, I'm not sure." What began as a clear statement ends with a disappointing and indecisive set of stammering, and Knox ducks his head in a somewhat self depreciating and distressed manner. He feels so many minds pulling on his own, so many that it becomes overwhelming.

"Roanne the Sentinel," he blurts out suddenly, leading a shocked and concerned Manhattan to direct her gaze to his own rather rapidly. "The Sentinel was my father," he continues firmly, nodding as if to praise and assure himself even as he speaks with a fair measure of confidence. Very suddenly and inexplicably, her presence has made him nervous. Her questions have struck a nerve; Manhattan only wonders if it is Knox's own mind that struggles now, or that of another.