KIROTTU
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There was poison dripping from his lips, as if he were a venomous snake, his fangs were bared, ready for the attack. Ears were slicked back, so that the beast's cranium appeared as nothing more than a snake made from quicksilver, framed by a sleek forelock and mane that whipped angrily at the crest of his arced nape. His muzzle contorted into an ugly, scornful twist, one that showed yellowing teeth, one that made his handsome façade look almost as nasty, as ugly, as cursed as the one he wore unwillingly during the day.

But the malice didn't quite reach his eyes. Behind those deep, dark, violet orbs, there was only a great sadness.

He was angry, yes, but mostly he was saddened, devastated that he couldn't seem to find acceptance no matter where he went, no matter what time of day. Surely this girl was blind, to not bow down to his magnificent form, to not worship him for all the grace and wonder he held and conducted himself with? Surely, it was not he who was defective, but she? But she saw something wrong with him, and worse still, she questioned him about it, brought it to the fore of the stage, flooded it with the limelight so that there was no other option but for him to see it there, mocking him. But what was it she had seen? Surely she did not possess the ability to see both forms of him at once?

If only the stallion could see how he made himself ugly by the temper he allowed to control him, if only he could see understand that it was not the beauty of his fine, muscular bodice that drew in the admiring glances, but the beauty of the brilliant mind he possessed, that if turned onto something more productive that his own self pity, he could learn how to move mountains with mere thoughts. The power of the mind was a magnificent thing, but Kirottu knew not how to engage his to be useful, the idea of involving someone else into his predicament had only ever been met with ridicule by his own inner voice, that dark, resounding, powerful voice which drove him into his rages, drove him into trying to destroy himself while he was in his beastly body.

The strange fox growled, simultaneous with the darkening of the young femme's face. Kiro took a step back, glancing down for a moment at the canine, his scowl softening with wariness for a breath before raising upwards again. What was he expecting when he looked into her eyes once again? Certainly not the hard, resolute stare that he was given. For a moment a fear shadowed his face, the sadness behind his eyes grew to an unsteady, unsure gaze, a stare of wonder, of perplexment. "I.. I…" He stuttered, and unwittingly his ears had risen from the silken, silver locks about his poll.

"I am not weak!" He snorted roughly again, ears attempting to bow down beneath his tresses but he had been unseated, unnerved; he did not even convince himself as his voice shook, his resolve broken. "I am not weak.." He said again, and this time, it was barely a murmur, as his features broke, the sadness overwhelming, haunting, enveloping the entirety of the mask he attempted to hold up. "I.." He didn't know what to say, how to continue his justification. Somehow, his eyes had wandered down to the level of her dark legs, her obsidian hooves. He raised his sights again, clung to hers, used them as his anchor. What could he say?

"It is not a simple matter of choice." He said with some refinement, his tones more respectful than before, but still possessed with a clipped, hard edge, a warning interlaced amongst the words. It was the first honest thing he had ever said, the closest he had ever come to admitting that there was something wrong with him to another soul. It was, in a roundabout way, an acknowledgement of his curse, and it was hard. His legs quivered beneath him, anticipating what came so often after he was forced into these sorts of predicaments, after he came so close to exposing himself, to run off into the distance, until the terrain changed, until the demons behind him had given up their chase.

But he held onto his position, locked into her chocolate gaze, pleading with those eyes to cure his own of their sadness.

And for once, he did not look up at the Moon.

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THE CURSED ONE