He screeches and raves, tongue hissing over teeth as pink-hued saliva foams at his mouth, clinging to the lips of the fine obsidian perfection that is the true Demon King as his fractured mind drags him onwards and towards the innocence of the Glorall Pack. Heckles rise like ebony knives along his ruff and spine as the creature strides forward, always straight, always, Tobias does not waver nor turn, the obsessive nature of his mind ensuring he moves like a fired arrow that cuts and slices against the wind. Straight. The earth itself leans with vile revulsion from him, branches and shrubs breaking and bowing beneath his coming form as he makes no effort to move around them, snarl coiling and hissing within his throat as he descends into the pack. Blackened paws dip within the water, the giant creature moving with devoid and deadened sense, irritation and frustration marking each line of his form as he is dragged and ripped towards that pathetic surviving fraction of his soul- the single viable section of some proof of life that the white creature, the phantom of Glorall has clung to though surely unknowingly, unwillingly, for she cannot possibly understand the plague she has unleashed upon herself, her song, her pain- a sickening siren to the depraved creature whose jowls leak and salivate at the thought of her flesh and yet whose mind recoils from that which he cannot understand.

They do not stop him, none come forward to dare tell the nightmare born of Jaidah and Demetri that he will not walk upon these lands. He cannot be stopped, for years now he has been unconquerable, his form to large, to perfect, to powerful and his mind to sickened with tendrils of depravity to allow any to dare to reason with a creature whose mind revolts from even the most basal forms of life. The blackened Angel strides forward, moving through the water and upon the banks, droplets leaking down his powerful limbs to stain the sand below as he passes deeper and deeper into the land itself, dead eyes flicking, once, body twisting, form adjusting with sickening ease, pulled in another direction as those demons hiss and screech and steer him towards the den of another. Jaye. Jaye. Memories, images, fractures of moments in time caught within his incapable conscious. This scent he knows. Grandmother. Though the word means nothing, is nothing as emerald eyes stare with dead and blank resolve upon the white creature who sits and stares. He cannot understand why he has come, cannot fathom her emotions, rampant and twisted within herself have summoned him, her pain and anguish a silent scream from her soul for his own though never will he fathom it, never will he be made to understand the emotional weakness of others. He feels nothing, is nothing, he does not understand why he has come, knows only he cannot consume her and this frustration leaks from within him as lips peel back in threat and warning as he looms before her, summoned by her, the perfect knife, the Angels Sword as he circles and turns, growling, hissing.

He pauses, ears forward, dead eyes against her own, waiting, expectant. She has called him and he has come, the dark recess of his mind understanding only that when others call him they seek him, they feed him and she offers him no food, offers him no target as Jaidah does, his mind unable to comprehend the death of his Mother, her fractured image flickering behind his eyes as he snarls once more, demanding from her, not understanding that she will not perceive why he has come, will not understand his frustration at having been summoned and given no purpose. He hungers- she will feed him, or he will feed on the inhabitants of Glorall, one by one by one.

“Hungry.”