The Black Prince
In the night they come, in the dark they hide, flying on black wings, nightmares reside.....

He is on the wrong side this night, yes, his demonic form has passed the borders of the west and slipped into the east, the land littered with the reek of weakness and vile youth that spills like a bloodied wound from all those grown swollen with pregnancy. He cannot understand this, cannot perceive this growth of life, knows only that the females have grown slow, tender and yet fierce. Instinct sours them against him, as if the life within them rebels at his presence and warns them away or rallies within them an aggression he need not bother confronting for a meal chance worth the effort. Yet within the depths of the frost so frigid the blackened angel is lured towards them by a hunger, a desire greater then his need to feed. His is a creature borne of instinct alone, driven by desires and needs on a level so basic it is near forgotten within the blood of the wolf and yet Tobias exists still, his fractured mind allured by the scent upon the females, his body demanding from him to perform as he had with Aaliyah and yet....the ones grown swollen already bare fangs at him, drive him back within the shadows for his hunger for their flesh does not stir within the winter, not truly, no. Yet his frustration only grows, coils and wreaths inside him, unable to perceive why they turn with bloodied fangs towards him and seek to pierce his flesh when he comes at them- not to feed, but to offer another kind of salvation. He is perfection on this earth, a creature crafted from all the sin of hell itself, beautiful, exquisite, born of a bloodline so old and ancient within this land and to look upon the emerald-eyed creature of faultless obsidian is to see all the perfection of those immortal. Yet still they refuse, still their instincts warn them from touching him, from allowing him to touch, as if they recoil from the chasms of death that reach with gnarled fingers towards them. As if they do not understand that he does not bring them death on swift wings this night. No- he follows their scent of heat, powerful muscle rippling and rolling beneath his ebony cape as he comes like a shadow, spilling across the earth.

She is alone, alone, alone and the scent of Pack is ignored, invisible beneath the odour only of her feminine self, the tortured creatures mind reacting to that alone, the hunger within himself twisted and forced aside as a hunger anew coils and lashes as demons snicker and smirk and drive him onward and towards her, following her trail across the crater’s edge as his tounge wipes his jaws and eyes so dead and vacant peer with merciless ease ahead, unblinking, unmoving. To seek such a thing is both vile and hard-wired within his mind. He detests the touch of others, none but Aaliyah are permitted to stroke at his fur and yet what his body demands requires the touch of others and yet...allows for his own dominance, another instinct ground so deep in a boy born of Alpha blood on both sides. He does not bow, he does not yield and yet they must offer this to him if he is to pertain his goal. Already Aaliyah grows large with child and indeed it may be seen to any who witness such a thing, that surely the impossible has occurred, that a creature born soulless, a creature born upon the brink of death who feeds upon the life of others- is capable of producing life though he cannot understand this, cannot perceive this, grows only frustrated and aggressive when Aaliyah rejects his continued advances, his mind unable to control this instinct. So he comes within the dark, following the pale one, emerging from behind, the shadows of his kingdom parting to reveal the Black Prince of Moladion as his breath rises like smoke in the air to wreath his form in a halo of fog and mist.

A growl, deep, low, coils within his form, head and tail lifted, raised in dominance that displays the perfection of his build, his muscle, his power as he comes forward atop the snow, white fangs glinting within the pale shine of the moon. It stirs within him, that need, that drive for blood so hot and rich that saliva falls in streams from his jaws, tongue whipping it away with depraved ease as claws slice through snow like the ice is no more than ribbons of flesh as his lip curls and ripples with the snarl that slides from within. Closer and closer he comes, pressing her back, seeking to force her to the edge of the ridge where she can come only forward to himself, or plunge within the darkness, dead eyes focused upon her own, playing his dangerous little game. She will not leap from the ridge, no, no.....yet if she does she will crack and break upon the earth, spill her blood and flesh and he will feed and be sated. Else she will come forward, attempt to fight herself free and insight his anger and frustration all the more, or perhaps, perhaps she will simply give in, though this does not guarantee her safety, perhaps he will find himself hungry after his actions, it cannot be said. His pauses, a towering mass of black and muscle, muzzle reaching forward, closer, closer....he need only get close enough to grasp her and one way or another...this is over.

“Play with me.”



t o b i a s
6 years ~ Owner of Aaliyah ~ Stalker of None ~ Loner