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.
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