07-21-2016, 03:27 PM
He nods slowly as the winged bay mare speaks to him. Perhaps, she is right, and he hopes she is. He hopes this uncertainty passes in time, because the fog and the anxiety are frustrating. He cannot help but scowl into the dirt. In his very short life he has felt hunger, confusion, and strife. Others have mothers to coo away the discontent and stuff the belly with warm milk. Knock has a dead man and a stranger, and too many questions for such a young mind.
But there is comfort in the company of this stranger - something that could never be so with those of his own blood. If he were to stay, the raw emotions he feels would be exploited. He would be forged into a weapon - a faux reincarnation of his grand-sire. No doubt Kirin would transform him to suit the needs of the bloodthirsty Cove. Much is at stake, but Knock does not know. How could one so young know?
Finally, he meets the brown of the mare’s eyes, but he cannot answer her question. The idea of being able to choose who he wants to be is strange. His ears flick towards his poll, faster than iron should move. But, he isn’t angry.
“How can I be anything but this?” he asks, looking first to the shoreline, glowing in the morning light, and then to Khaos. How can he be any more than his blood? It is a simple question, at least for him, but there is depth to it beyond what he knows.
Then she asks of his mother and father, and Knock looks at her as if she is speaking a foreign language, head tilted to the side and ears pricked forward. He thinks for a moment, eyes returning to the dirt at his feet. He could lie. He could tell her his mother would be back soon, but they both know it isn’t so. Knock has been abandoned. He cannot answer, not with words, for “No” hurts like nothing he has ever felt. So he shakes his head slowly, shamefully.
There is much writhing within him. He has almost forgotten his hunger by the time she reminds him of it. He looks back to Khaos, posturing up and staring the dead beast in the face.
“Yes,” he says, finally. “I am hungry.” but not in a way that can be helped by mother’s milk. “Do you know who this is?” he asks the mare as he studies the weathered iron corpse. Surely she knows more than he.
But there is comfort in the company of this stranger - something that could never be so with those of his own blood. If he were to stay, the raw emotions he feels would be exploited. He would be forged into a weapon - a faux reincarnation of his grand-sire. No doubt Kirin would transform him to suit the needs of the bloodthirsty Cove. Much is at stake, but Knock does not know. How could one so young know?
Finally, he meets the brown of the mare’s eyes, but he cannot answer her question. The idea of being able to choose who he wants to be is strange. His ears flick towards his poll, faster than iron should move. But, he isn’t angry.
“How can I be anything but this?” he asks, looking first to the shoreline, glowing in the morning light, and then to Khaos. How can he be any more than his blood? It is a simple question, at least for him, but there is depth to it beyond what he knows.
Then she asks of his mother and father, and Knock looks at her as if she is speaking a foreign language, head tilted to the side and ears pricked forward. He thinks for a moment, eyes returning to the dirt at his feet. He could lie. He could tell her his mother would be back soon, but they both know it isn’t so. Knock has been abandoned. He cannot answer, not with words, for “No” hurts like nothing he has ever felt. So he shakes his head slowly, shamefully.
There is much writhing within him. He has almost forgotten his hunger by the time she reminds him of it. He looks back to Khaos, posturing up and staring the dead beast in the face.
“Yes,” he says, finally. “I am hungry.” but not in a way that can be helped by mother’s milk. “Do you know who this is?” he asks the mare as he studies the weathered iron corpse. Surely she knows more than he.