Old cloven hooves scathe summer's frost to realize the place is in heaven. The darkness is residing here, and Daltoff fears with the scent of horse in his beak, that someone would find him like this. The curse works it's magic at night, causing feathers to plume his pores, sprout from his back, replace his tail, and comb through his mane. The only things it hasn't touched are his horn and his hooves. Everything unicorn about him is still present, but the wings sprouting from his back are an added feature. The stallion could rip them out if he had teeth. His bird eyes glow red in the reflection of glimmering aurora borealis. He senses that light will soon topple over the mountains' peaks and he'll be freed until the following nightfall. Not that he'd ever be freed for good.

    He remembers the day it happened too, his first day in the god damned realm, and he was getting cursed. He remembers the ravens, filling every gap above them in the forest, inky murderers, casting down a shadow that cloaked the King and his new arrival. Such evil darkness placed a sweet soaking of satisfaction into the FrostHeart, while hexing Daltoff a fucking bird for the rest of his life. The following night it started, the most painful transition, feathers stabbed their ways out of his pores, and crammed themselves along his face and eyes, skin becoming hard and puffy dowsed in excruciation, not to mention his mouth. His mouth was the most painful of all. Finally before he thought he was dead, the mouth reshaped as the moon's silver lie cast itself over the old general's maw, warping and bubbling into a black shell, curved and sharp as his horn. His tongue compressed into a tiny sliver, nostrils reformed suddenly, cutting holes in that black beak, finally the urge to breathe through shallow passageways. He was damned then.

Now the stallion had got used to the daily pain. He still feared each night for his own good. The ripping of flesh, cramming of feathers, the jut of wing, and that beak - yes he had reason to fear. It made him a bird, and those wings would always haunt him, bringing forth memories of the infamous Pegasus. Daltoff felt that as long as he had is horn and his hooves, he'd at least remain part of this world.

If only he could transform in the eyes of the FrostHeart. He imagined the genuine leader, frost frozen with fear in the dead of morning as the old general showed true colors, shedding the gnarly body of bird to become himself again. To reveal.

So the old general waited there, in the veil of a mountain rock, ready to reveal himself at the call of dawn.

Hours passed, and cold ran into the black, cursed body before sun showed itself in the distance. The red bird eye eclipsed a silent sunny ray and he cawed. A wretched, shrill scream that could cause an avalanche in the winter season. His call echoed the walls of the Basin, rebounding to his own feathered ears with enough sound to make him cringe. He did cringe.

And they would too.