Prodigal Son blah blah blah

Silence    s m i l e s       up at you. Tension builds along your spine like hackles rising on a stray dog. Something - But Virga, you're not paying attention. The next downstroke of your wings sets off alarm bells in the back room of your mind, but alarms ring so loud everywhere else you ignore them a moment too long. Your dark eyes scan the sky, the veiled horizon, in search of what sounds like a flock of birds… You're falling. Somewhere, something flipped a light switch and the soft glow of your wings went out. You fall - not like a moment ago - like long months past when you first tested the moonfeathers after dawn and learned the hard way sunlight holds no reverence for she who rules the night. It's like that, only worse because this wound in the world leaks malignance out of every pore (of course your magic doesn't work here). You flap - and flap - and flap useless as a newly hatched chick, but it's instinct kicking in your brain, in your guts. Instinct screaming this should not be! Those deep black eyes of yours rolls prettily in your head, and the ground surges up, and it's going to hurt - Flickers. Flickers of light along the edges of those useless black feathers. It's like the moon reaching out to help you, only it burns. The feathers sprout anew but faintly, diminished, and the more you beg them to be the more they feel like knives sliding up into your wings - feathers in reverse. Where the air drags at them, you want to rip them out. With a cry, you let it go, and crash to earth. Or whatever the ground calls itself here. The shock of impact surges up through your limbs, into your shoulders, and it's too much even despite the brief drag created by your almost-feathers. Knees buckling, you grind your chest into the dirt, and for a moment lie there, heaving. The rift heaves back at you. It reeks of evil all the way down. You can't just lie there; the overwhelming sensation of watched, the overwhelming sensation of prey beat at your brain and with a great, awful surge you throw your aching body to its feet. And it does hurt. Malformed wings hang, aching, limp, from the shuddering muscle of your chest and shoulders. New abrasions on your chest and limbs burn in the cool, ill-colored air. And your head is a vice, pounding with exhaustion and nerves, a whirlwind of sickly color to match the forest. The forest. The forest. It surges up at you. White rings shine around the edges of your eyes as your delicate face jerks up. Your ears pivot forward. All the breath catches in your chest and you can't stop staring, the fly caught in a web. You want to run. Gods, you want to run, but nothing in you responds. And the dirt heaves up and something underneath it charges you. It wants to kill you; you know this. You know this so thoroughly it trembles in the marrow of your bones, but you watch it come like a dumb fawn until it's upon you, beneath you, before you: something hungry. Something terrible. But - then it goes. And you're left alone, alone with your aching body and your failing magic and no moon, no moon to guide you save what echoes of her linger still within your veins. Your pretty face swings left and right as adrenaline ebbs. Move, you think, and finally your hooves move, but they must weigh 100 pounds each. Somewhere, your family must be out there, surely.... If not in the wicked trees, then somewhere else. Somewhere.... In truth, you don't know what else to do except go. So you go. Alone. countdown to selfdestruct

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tl;dr he's on the ground now. This is open if anyone's interested in joining x)

and thank you, rift presence!