Prodigal Son blah blah blah

You return too late. You return, and the world is torn to shreds. The mighty peaks guarding your valley home: in shambles, torn asunder with the force and fury of some alien, some vengeful god. The mist and silence of your second home: all ashes, shrapnel littering the ground. The wall, gone; the trees, uprooted. Where are the kings and queens of your age? Where are the people? The children? Life teemed in this place once before, beloved and shepherded by she whose own divine blood runs in your veins. Her siblings, her children, threw off every challenge before. Nothing humbles a god. But then where are they? Gone. As you soar beneath a blackened sky, something the heat and texture of tar boils up in your guts; you name it fear. In the hoarse, winded gasp of a beast half-grown, a beast thrown far from his roots and stretched thin by time, you roar your father's name. Again. Again. Your sister's name, Tembovu’s name, the name of every warrior you can recall - but no. No good. In your absence everything you knew has fled, or been corrupted. Only the crumbling ruins of the proudest land ever to grace this wretched earth smile back through broken teeth at your shadow. Press on; no other choice. It's hell you’ve stumbled back upon. Your wings, late-coming and ill-tested, flex and strain in mighty surges against the void. But there's only you, only you and cataclysm and the light of the warped moon, and each new breath sliding into you comes harder fought than the last. You will fail. You will fall. It may come before the dawn, but it will certainly come after, when sunlight burns away the gift of your brilliant flight feathers and pins you to the ground with merciless laughter. Too long aloft; too far flown. You're dipping, tilting, frowning at the roiling waters of the southern sea... You fall. ... You are still falling in that other place, when the other place rears up and grabs you in its teeth. Like a dark star, a drop of ink bled from the heavens, your many-pointed shape tumbles end over end in a cacophony of feathers, hooves, and horn. Then trees - trees ahead and you twist through - you twist above them. The strength necessary to right your body floods through every nerve ending, raw adrenaline. Gasping. Breathing. Every heart beat hurts now that you live in hell. What's left of you? In you? To keep you going? “Mama!” you trumpet, desperate. “Papa! Mesec! Ki’irha! Vesper! Grandmother!” With an exhausted swoop you light upon a trembling limb; it moans and cracks beneath your weight. Oh gods, where are you? Surely they would not abandon all they made. Surely - surely - “WHAT HAPPENED?” You roar it into the rift. The rift roars back. It’s a fury of color, a nightmare of shape. None of this ought to exist at all; your senses crawl and reel backward as if assaulted. Bright lights, watching eyes: you hate it; you hate it! Through the shuddering of your exhausted muscles, through the crushing weight of exhaustion, you glimpse this one feeling and you grasp onto it with all your might. Hate it; hate it and conquer it and do what you came to do. No time for rest; to pause now is to falter. The branch gives up; you leap again, and the strain in your chest, your mighty shoulders, wants to kill you. Behind, that unlucky branch falls in your place. It cries out in a dry voice as it shatters. But the blood of the moon flows in your veins, silver bright. None of this is enough to break you. Lost a year and more - two years - a decade - what would it matter? If your family lives, you will find them. Their faces burn in memory, brilliant, beautiful, the only stars you need to guide your way. This place will not defy you. You are the moon's blood. You are divine. countdown to selfdestruct

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His magic on Helovia was a passive, though prob a partial transformation here?:
[ Magic: Dark | Moonlight adds glowing silver primary feathers. ]
[ Restrictions | Only able to support flight in moonlight. ]