A wheezing, stumbling creature ambles along a thin, hidden path. He walks, his long toes often causing a small falter in his step, his horn held lazily in front of him, his tail dragged low behind him. One might think he has little will to live – and they wouldn’t be far from the truth. But he is not suicidal, merely mercilessly trapped in a body whose age has been accelerated beyond repair. Ribs show, hips protrude, a deep dip in his back give evidence to a pain that must consequently course down his spine, all the time. The thin, ewe shaped neck barely holds the once majestic crown of the stallion, who bright, violet eyes peer out from sparse strands of mangy forelock.

Another breath is sucked in through yellowing teeth, before his dirty nose snorts it out, his back aching from the effort of holding his body up. How long until sunset… damnit. The purple tinged eyes had just glanced to the sky, seeing the raging Sun still high in the sky, he trudges onwards dully.

What else was he supposed to do? How long would he suffer? He was so tired of this form, and it had only been.. how long? Just how long had it been since he had met that ugly, witchy mare? She had shed her skin to become a beauty, just as he did at night. She had been the one to curse him, to make his namesake come true. I am nothing but an ugly beast now… He didn’t realise that he had been a beast all along.

He hated her. He hated this body. He was tired of its uselessness, its accelerated aging, its tired and aching joints. He longed for the night to come, so that darkness could embrace him as the Sun’s curvature dropped below the horizon, so that he could embrace the youthful body that he believed was his true, rightful form.

Another glance to the sky, another scowl appeared upon the old brute’s face. The minutes seemed to drip by slower in the summer, the scorching heat doing nothing for his thin, unhealthy pelt and skin. He didn’t care, he hated this body anyway; maybe if it rotted completely away he would only ever see his true form? In his heart he knew this to be untrue, for though he often starved himself of food and water when in this form, when the Sun rose, it always stole his younger, healthier body away from him again. A racking cough brought his uneasy steps to a halt. Where was he? Eyes, desperate for an escape, peered out from behind sagging lids, silently hopeful.

Silently pleading.

Joints seemed to groan under the weight of the frail body, hooves came to a standstill as dust, from his body or from the ground beneath him- he didn’t know, swirled around him. Eyes that were sharp and focussed watched a small bird flitting about the trees, though they were framed with a tired and worn out mask, they sparkled with a life that was yet to be lived. Teeth that were rotted and ground away from years the curse had applied to them gnashed together behind the dirty grey maw, frustration always driving him to subconsciously want to destroy this body. Hearing that too had dampened from the magic which plagued him didn’t alert the brute to the Pegasus female until she had stepped forth from the trees to reveal her patchy bodice. Muscles twitched in preparation for flight on foot from surprise, but even that reaction was slow, sluggish, and only resulted in his head snapping around to focus his intense gaze upon her, face unreadable for the moment.

Pegasus, he thought, a species he knew of and had seen from a distance, but never had he been this close before. They had been neighbours in his homeland, but mostly kept to themselves. He had never had a negative interaction with them, but he wasn’t sure about the wings which sprouted from her shoulders, and he found himself observing closely the way the sun danced over the feathers, the way each ray was caught on a particle of dusty feather-down, and he appreciated the simple beauty it conveyed. The mare herself was put together in a comfortable fashion, again he found very little at fault with her, even enjoying the way her mane so delicately framed the darker browns and pale whites of her hide. Physical beauty was something Kirottu understood, something he longed for. This Onni, he decided was a beautiful creature. But her question caused something within him to react with mirth, and a raspy, rough coughing laughter began from him.

Help? As if he could ever rely on another to help him, to break this curse, to fix his appearance, to ever call him beautiful again. He probably looked quite mad, but as the deep chuckles subsided, he shook his once-handsome-now-unfortunate looking crown from side to side. “Unless you can turn back time, any aid you might provide would be useless to me.” A voice that hinted at once upon a time belonging to a proud, vibrant Prince croaked from his throat, gravelly and seemingly deeper with age, broken due to the wheezes of breath he so often had to inhale. The next to arrive was a stallion of taller stature to Onni, and, Kirottu annoying observed, himself. Vertebra in his neck ached as his sights tilted to view the stallion, as he noted that with his back swaying so painfully and dangerously low, his height had been reduced. The spotted one spoke, and with the comment of grandfather, Kirottu’s ears slowly leaned back, ruffling the wispy bits of mane that lingered.

He didn’t care that this stallion didn’t know any better, frankly he didn’t give a flying hoot that he ruled a herd, with all his strength and youthfulness given to him, Kirottu would have been doing the same, he believed. It annoyed him, to be reminded about his curse by others, to have it confirmed that he was nothing but an old fool to them, an ugly beast who warranted nothing more than pity and sympathy. No! He was not that, was he? In this body that resembled a gargoyle hanging off the pier of a gothic church, perhaps that’s all he was. Violet eyes flashed at the pale, speckled stallion, jealous of his youthful stance, wanting what he had, what he was deserving of, what he was born into. He would have traded places with this stallion then and there if he had the opportunity, without care for Mauja’s opinion on the matter, and he would have called him ugly and grandfather too, probably. The thought that Mauja might have taken similar offence or hurt to the words never crossed his mind.

Another stepped through the trees, this one another mare, another beauty. The way the golden hue curled about her contours, framed by the illustrious white, the chiselled shape of her tiara. She held no horn, he noted, but that wasn’t so unusual, again, he knew of Equines, and had a little bit more to do with them than with the winged ones, but even so he thought the simplicity of her lack of a horn complimented her further. So he was to be graced with the presence of all three species this warm day, frankly he didn’t really know what to do, how to handle them all. Soft tones came from the belle, his ears perked up to hear them, and he was sad for a moment that he had not been given a name from her. But then, he realised, he hadn’t given a name. But she had given him something, the name of this place, this Helovia. He chewed the thought over, his eyes distractedly glancing skywards for a moment, a habitual motion of his to check the travels of the Sun across the sky. How he hated that Sun, for the form it forced him to take.

“Beast.” He coughed up roughly, abruptly. It was what he had been calling himself when this form plagued him, he hated to give his true name in this body, he didn’t need the double reminder of his curse. Kirottu was reserved for his prime bodice, its exotic nature not always revealing of the true meaning, the joke it had begun as becoming a dark and toxic reality. “My name is Beast.” He reiterated, a bit more clearly now that the phlegm from his throat had shifted to allow the deep tones to curl about his tongue. “I am neither in need of your pity nor your help.” His voice held a slightly sharp edge to it, though he mostly focussed the pointed words at the stallion, whom he had come to see as a sort of threat, an annoying reminder of what had been forcibly removed from him during the daylight hours. Another breath wheezed out of him, however, and with another fleeting glance to the sky, he visibly took on a calmer demeanour.

“Tell me about this Helovia.” He wasn’t really interested, but he did want company, he was reluctant to realise. Even if they looked at him with pitiful, repulsed gazes, he could not shake the habit of giving an order without the courtesy of a please or thank you. The tinge of purple In his pools conveyed a sadness, a longing, but for what, they must never know.

The beastly one watches the reactions given to him with his sharp, all-seeing eyes, observing the surprise and shock cross their faces, as if they had only just found the ugly creature and were belatedly showing their disgust for his appearance. This is all he understands, or thinks he understands, they are repulsed by him, and so they should be - his twisted, rotting form repulses even he, any reflective surface he might look into swiftly destroyed whilst in this wreck of a body. A scowl pinches his lips as he takes in their expressions, while they only show concern, icy indifference and even eagerness to know more about him, he reads them as pity, disgust and blind hate. He can not see what is given before him, for he is blinded by his own ugliness.

An ugliness that does not fade as the Sun goes down.

It was his soul that was ugly, and the day time hours that reflected the true nature of it. The same ugliness caused his perception of those around him to be twisted, untruthful. He sees the helpfulness they offer him, but he does not see it, understand it. He cannot comprehend that they would be kind, when he himself would be unkind should the situations be reversed. He feels all the scorn and hatred not emanating from them, but from himself, all from his own warped sense of reality. But he does not understand this, the key to the spell, the need to change himself and to perceive the world for what it actually offered him, to offer kindness and accept it in return. No, he knows not what he is denying, but denies it anyway.

Onni admits her helplessness, something which Kirottu had already ascertained, none can break this wretched curse, and Mauja's words and actions suggest he is, what? Apologetic? Surely not, who would apologise to a beast such as he? He speaks of honour, and Onni of pleasure, and Kirottu labels them liars, knowing full well that there is no honour in meeting and greeting a broken, perverse creature such as he. He falls silent after that, his cool blue eyes piercing Kirottu's equally sharp violet pools. His eyes, they plead for recognition, like maybe there is beauty in there, there is understanding, hope. But the scornful body that holds these eyes also blinds them, makes them unable to accurately read what is truly offered to him. He is offered peace, but he takes hatred instead.

Solstice introduces herself, and the lilac orbs dart back to her illustrious golden painted form, his own hardened expression softening ever so slightly at the sheer beauty the simple mare offers to the eyes, but then she speaks of pleasure. The stallion finds this infuriating, you see, for he cannot grasp why any of these beings would find his presence a happy occasion, not while he is in this form. Grinding his teeth, he reluctantly calls this mare a liar, a deluded creature even, for there is nothing pleasurable, or honourable, about this steed, not during the day. Nor during the night - but Kirottu would have believed them had they come across his night-time self. As it was, he denied their pleasantries with the simple resolve of his twisted, dark mind.

Onni's delightful voice continues, she tells him of this land, Helovia, of the herds, and just to confirm what Kirottu felt he knew all along, no offer of a home was made. They come to mock me, to show off all that they possess with no intentions of sharing.. I am nothing to them. A sadness enveloped him then, whatever life was animating his form seems to leak away, and leave behind a battered, defeated posture, the spark behind his eyes darkening against unknown resolves as it looks to each of the gathered in turn. They speak of Gods, of a drought.. And the beast adds another reason to his list to hate the Sun. Extended days? Less time in his preferred, rightful form? Brilliant. Teeth groaned as they ground against each other again, annoyance slipping over his façade like a dark veil.

"I shall take my leave of you all." It was probably an abrupt statement, but Kirottu was unpractised with simple niceties of social interaction. A rough snort rolled from his nostrils, though he longed for company, he simply could not stand their stares anymore, their lies, their hatred. His skin itched, his joints ached, he was slow to inspire the movement in his limbs again. But move he did, tracing a path between the spotted steed whom he hated on principle, and the palomino mistress he was reluctant to scorn, ears tilted in directions that suggested the conversation was over. A thought cross his mind, and like an itch, would not leave him until he voiced it. Rough tones spoke again, though there was some attempt to make them seem softer, more genuine, as he directed them towards the pegasus.

"Thank you." It was a strange feeling that coursed through him, this sense of true, righteousness. It was subtle, and he knew not the exact cause, but he seemed to be able to walk with more ease, his long tail even being lifted from the ground, swaying to and fro. Some small part of him had realised that even though she claimed to know nothing, Onni had indeed been helpful, despite his appearance. It would be the first of many small victories his inner soul might make against this curse.