’...and so he came, with all the sin of hell upon his face and the glory of Angels in his stride. To look upon him was to see true beauty and yet to look to long would be to see your last. For the King of Demons loves and burns within the same breath. He is death- with a smirk.’

The darkened creature detaches himself from the wings of the Angel, deadened eyes watching with a look as vacant and devoid as his features as she returns to the embrace of the white creatures from whom his fangs are forbidden. Yet how those demons shriek and rage and scream within his skull to state the diving hunger within his stomach and quench the burning desire within his veins. How he wishes to soothe the fire of his existence with the scarlet life of another. It is all he feels, all the Black Prince has ever felt. He is driven only by instinct and hunger, his need to feed eliminating all other desire. There is no emotion and in this way the darkened violation, scourge of Moladion, has become is darkest ruler. He cannot be reasoned with, for his mind cannot perceive such words, he possesses no ability to direct thought, to interpret emotion on any level and in this way he cannot be stopped, he is unbound by the vile weakness of feeling, the very weakness that had stopped his mother from tearing his throat from him the day he devoured his brother. Weakness had allowed him to live, weakness had seen him reach the perfection that he is and it is weakness that feeds his insatiable appetite and soothes the darkened tendrils of a mind so depraved. If it can be said that the demonic creature can perceive goals or desires then perhaps it is his single-minded obsession to eliminate weakness from this world. It is a vileness, a foulness that his bloodied fangs have sought again and again. So many have died at his fangs, so many have had the life torn from them as the barest taste of blood sends the nightmarish male into a rage of berserker proportions. He tears them apart, savages them into pieces because he cannot stop, because he has no control and those demons laugh and giggle and gnash there fangs in delight as he does.

He does not exist, he is not real, he has no soul to tie him to this earth. He is a shell, a carcass who plays at life, who mimics, who pretends to exist. Yet is this not the most ultimate of sins? For Tobias is a creature of perfection, a body to tall and hard and powerful, a face so perfect as if the Angels themselves had carved upon him features all their own and yet such is his sinful grace. For he lures them in, they come so willingly, for nature demands it, females seek he who is above them all and yet their instinct draws them back to late. It is only as the blood runs from their veins and within his throat that they realise they have been fooled by The Black Prince of the stories, the nightmarish creature whom Mothers whispered about to children in their sleep, the scourge of this earth who had devoured so many and the only creature upon this existence to have survived the fangs of the Angel King. None command him now. He has reached the pinnacle of his power and all but one have had the sense to hide as he passes, all but Fatality had bowed to their King as the shadows caressed his midnight pelt and bathed their ruler is a cape of obsidian perfection while emerald eyes of reptilian vileness glowed from the darkness. He cannot be controlled, he cannot be stopped and in the darkness he comes.

It cannot be said what has lured the depraved creature from his kingdom of shadows this night and yet he comes all the same with the reek of Angels upon his pelt and the blood of another strewn across his lips as those dead, devoid eyes simply stare ahead. Her call is a summon he still answers, a tie deep within the empty shell of his existence that his mind cannot perceive, just as he cannot understand time, or self, just as he mimics life around him because he cannot understand it. They snarl at each other, the white wolfess and the dark one, exchanging vile words that scratch at his ears and drive fangs into his skull as a snarl of his own slithers from his lips, the sound a horrid rush of air that mimics scream and claw on stone as the blackened creature emerges, heckles raised like knives along his spine as dead eyes fall upon the white female. He cannot perceive her, not truly, his mind a fractured vileness of memory broken and diseased and yet somewhere within the creature he remembers the white female. Mother. Jaidah. Mother. Lips peel back from bloodstained fangs as the towering black, draped in midnight and spilt scarlet life slides on silent wings upon the earth, the true Angel of death, stopping opposite his Mother, placing the other female between the pair. Weakness, she smells of weakness and Tobias must feed.....Mother will help him. Tobias demands it. Mother does not dominate him anymore, no, no. Mother bows to him now, but that does not mean Tobias will not share with Mother.

“I am hungry, Mother.”

Like a child, with a voice so deep and smooth and sinful as it dances and twists within the dark, dead, unblinking eyes staring at the female between them, his features as blank and devoid as one without a soul can be.

Run Canine, run.




t o b i a s
the black prince