every single night --

[Kneel]

Kneel

every single night

There are certain things that shape a person, and you’ll find all of the wrong ones here.

Kneel was first and foremost arrogant. Disgustingly so, it was as if he emerged from the womb with prospect and accomplishment. Importance.

To his own people, anyways. Though they claimed to know him, to love him, he found that they realistically could never know him at all.

Kneel watches the river like he’s owed something from it, glaring at rivulets of aqua until he gives a dramatic sigh and dips his head to drink. Lavender tendrils of his mane spilling over his face like an intricate curtain, swirling past cattails until they tangled themselves within the threads of cerulean drink, and though his Father would have hated this—Kneel finds himself indifferent to the wet. At least it was clean.

Once his thirst had been sated, Kneel lifted his confetti-painted head to stare at a rippled reflection, watching his visage stretch, pull away from him, before it finally crushed its way back towards the bank. The river watches him more than he watches himself, yet the practice of looking upon his own face was something he never truly understood. Kirin made a point of it— Kneel was still trying to figure out what the point was. If he should feel something about the distortion of his features, the importance was lost, exchanged with frustration at the way the breeze sent his tail colliding with his wet mane. The ensuing knot rightly pissed him off.

”Fucking wind,” he snarled, a slight expansion of his wings sends a message of ‘stop annoying me’, without the words ever leaving his lips. Making himself bigger as though the wind was his next opponent and should be dealt with accordingly. A lightly feathered leg stomps against the ground, nostrils flared wide, and once more he was back to the issue of his hair tightly bound at the most unfortunate angles.

i pray that my wings are sittin' right

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[tear]

Boredom sends her wandering through the forest. Why the forest? She's not really sure, but it just seems right for today.

Maybe it's the inherent darkness that weaves itself between the crowded trunks, maybe that's what calls her here. After all, the shadowy places are perfect for the brands of magic given to her at birth. While her ‘special vision could be put to work anywhere, the idea of plucking long-dead souls from their afterlife just doesn't seem quite as natural in the flowery sunlight of the meadow as it does in the forest.

But she doesn't particularly feel like calling on the dead today, so she walks aimlessly, occasionally pausing to observe her surroundings. After each scan, she closes her grey eyes, but her head moves as though she is still looking around. And in fact, she is.

It's a sort of game she's enjoyed since she was a child, comparing the two sides of her sight. She likes to see if the natural vision has grown as sharp as the magical. Today, like every day before, proves that it still hasn't.

While everything is colored a touch warmer than it would have been just a few months ago, the rabbit's shape is far brighter than the foliage it hides amongst. It's actually rather close by, and this annoys her to some degree, so she beats her hoof against the ground a few times in rapid succession. The noise sends the rabbit scampering further into the woods and she quickly decides to pursue, to further test her senses.

Her eyes remain closed as she takes off at a moderate pace, an attempt to utilize the temperature differences to paint a perfect recreation of the world around her. It's something new that she's been trying lately, and it works well enough for several yards, but she fails to notice a patch of creeping vines that inevitably snare a hoof and send her stumbling to her knees.

She huffs loudly in frustration. She’s already come quite far in mapping out her surroundings, but she’s plagued by a bit of perfectionism, so she believes she should have already mastered the skill in the short time she’s been practicing. As she hauls herself back to her feet, the cloud markings spread along her body darken slightly and begin to weep. Before long, bright blue lightning flickers from cloud to cloud and down her legs in increasing frequency. A living storm painted on her deep purple skin.

Blood oozes from the abrasions on her knees, which she observes with a gently simmering anger. “Great…” With another grumble, she heads toward the water that she knows lies at one edge of the forest.

The river is the only thing on her mind as she exits, and he is some distance from where she emerges, so she does not notice the stallion at first. It is not until she wades in, eyes closed again, and feels the cool relief seeping into her stinging wounds that she realizes he is there, and it is only because he curses aloud. Her eyes snap open, turn in his direction, and she is immediately appreciative of his purple hues. Granted, she hasn’t met many others, but her mother is the only other she’s seen with similar coloring.

She watches for a moment, her own irritation melting away, as he seems to struggle, though against what, she can’t quite tell (as his mane falls on the side opposite of her position). Head cocked with curiosity, she calls out, “Need some help over there?”

tear

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@Kneel 

[Kneel]

Kneel

every single night

Twist it this way, he mused to himself, no.

Turn it then, the minutes tick by as he problem solves in silence, denying the wind his grievances, but the inner exchange takes place nonetheless.

No again, he clenches his jaw, grinding enamel against enamel until the sound sets his temper alight. Irritated enough to stop, stubborn enough to seethe anyways.

Misfortune never looked so pretty, and that’s exactly how he would tell the tale, if ever the mishap came up in normal conversation. As it were, the wind picked a fight, and his wet mane answered the challenge, what’s a boy to do?

Kneel was, to put it plain, dealing with a ruffled feather.

That’s when shit really hit the fan. A voice, and not just a voice to stir the already simmering pot that is known, most days, as Kneel, but a voice that offers assistance. The indignity crept along his spine at first, prickling with ever-light fingers until the skin broke formation to shiver in response. Furrowing his brow, the young stallion turned a tick in her direction, as if to say, ‘Did I hear that correctly?’ before the swivel of his head finally caught up to the interruption.

A single thread of lavender hair catching, a notable snag in his movement, and thus, his turn wasn’t as seamless as he had hoped it would be.

He didn’t care that she offered to help him, he didn’t care that he might, in fact, need help. He didn’t care that he was fighting with the elements quite out of his control. He didn’t care, didn’t care, didn’t care!

”Who are you?” The question feels like a demand, and though it is more complimentary to greet kindness with kindness—Kneel didn’t feel very kind at the moment. Not to her, not to the wind, not to his glorious, luxurious mane. He tugged again, but this time the connection simply tugged back, meeting his yanking with tension that sent his head bouncing back vigorously, or rather dramatically in the same instance.

After a long pause, longer than it should be, Kneel inhales one solitary breath, and speaks again. Inching his head towards her as far as he possibly can, while a brow lifts at the noted color palette and expressive lights dancing in elongated patterns across her skin.

”Can you? Help me, I mean?” The words are bitter as they form, pulled apprehensively from his lungs like the breath he had just taken was nothing more than performative.

i pray that my wings are sittin' right

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