Hulking dark shoulders rolled, thickened muscle coiling and releasing as the blackened plague passed on silent wings between the shade and shadow of the undergrowth, seeking to hide his ebony pelt from the shafts of spearing sun that blazed and scorched and burned at his eyes with vile intent. He detests the day, recoils violently from the bright touch of the sun above, rarely drawn from the bowels of the earth in which he resides within, the caves of the western crater a catacomb of tunnels and holes within which the Demon rests, travelling unseen beneath the earth, coiling and writhing within the darkness beneath the living who linger above and yet....he walks within the sun this day, moving back and forth between the shadows of the east and the City of Angels, lured by the scent of his mate, circling the pack day and night, waiting, waiting for her to come to him as she does each night, allowing him to caress her pelt and brush against her, posses her, own her as others do not, cannot. He craves her touch, her scent, his ravaged mind fixated and obsessed with the white and red daughter of Heyel as none before have ever been, unable to perceive why she returns within the boarders he cannot cross. His she says, His, but he cannot understand this, has no ability to perceive the life he has fathered upon her, unable to comprehend that she nurses his children, returns to them each night. Knows only that others touch her, that her pelt reeks of male scent not his own and this insights his insanity, his rage, his possessiveness, unable to accept this as frustration seethes within his blackened veins and the demons of his mind screech and scrap and scream for her return as hate for the white ones festers like a wound gone awry.
Moladion has suffered for it, the trail he leaves is bloodied and fouled, Hush and Cozcotl the most recent of his attacks, flesh savaged from their forms with utter brutality, violence born not from hunger, no, from frustration, from his inability to understand his missing mate and his inability to communicate as such. He does not understand, cannot ask, his ravaged, depraved mind unable to recognise this emotion, all such feelings blended with savage cruelty into hunger and rage. Touching, yes, others have been touching what is his. His. Aaliyah is his. No other. Never. A snarl coils within his throat, deep and guttural, spilling with an anguish into the air. It is almost a cry, a plea, as his claws tear wounds upon the earth, blank, devoid features twisting and contorting to display some fractured form of mimicked emotion before his features fall blank and dead once more, cold, reptilian gaze drawn ahead as his form shifts and adjusts, jerking and ridged, changing direction with sudden, deadly ease, moving towards the sounds of voices, the scent of heat and flesh so rippling and alive that sings like a siren song to a creature so lost and maddened as the one who looms like a true Dark Angel from the darkness.
He comes from behind, dark and shade parting, unlocking fingers of fathomless black to stroke at the obsidian cape of the true Demon King as he passes beneath the trees, emerging from nothing to loom and tower above and behind the boy of white and red, sickening green eyes aglow, a shadow dragged and forced into some sickened imitation of life as he appears behind Letum in the silence of death itself. Eyes hold against the green of the other, the female, dead, staring and yet unseeing, lips parting to reveal bloodied fangs still clamped about their latest prize- an ear, or what remains of it, ripped from the skull of an unwilling victim, chewed and mauled into a near unrecognizable lump of flesh and sinew that is removed from his jaws on a flood of saliva that leaks easily onto the back of the white male should he have been fool enough not to turn already. Heckle lift in silent demand, head and tail arching high in dominance, in power for all that he is, the untouchable, indestructible creature born of hell and hate and nightmare whom even Angels flee from- for he is protected in turn by the shield of his Aaliyah. This he knows, yes, yes, as he knows Angels are not for eating, no, but the white one smells not of Diveen and the black one is black. White and Diveen are not for waiting, his mind assessing and understanding within moments. Diveen- not not white, eatable. White but not Diveen. Eatable. They will not fight, no, they cannot fight, no, for a creature with no sense of self-preservation, a creature so inflicted by rage and hate cannot be stopped or controlled. Hungry, so hungry- but no.
He moves, that towering black mass of power and hunger drawing wide and away from the white one, circling, eyes still held against the green of Malina. Diveen. Aaliyah. Diveen. His fragile mind understands this and yet recoils already from his attempts, features twisting with sudden ferocity and frustration, snarl shaking his form as his head shakes in utter fury and his body jerks to shop, shaking in utter agitation as his lips attempt to form words he cannot find. A tantrum, like a child, before lips fall back over his teeth and words tumble forth, regurgitated from within, recycled fractured words drawn and taken from sentences pieced together in his conscious.
“Mine. Mine. Aaliyah. Mine- gone, gone. Where? Where? Touching her.....where?”
His features change, blank, dead and devoid as his tone as his stares at Malina, waiting, waiting, expectant before his lip twitches again, his features near convulsing as if overtaken by utter outrage once more, at his inability to make them understand and those demons, yes, yes, hungry, so hungry. White...he doesn’t like the white one, his mind unable to remain fixated upon the question he asks before those demons fixate upon Letum with savagery. White. White is dangerous, weak, vile, disgusting.
“Dirty white paws.”
He moves once more towards Letum now, as if Malina is forgotten, jaws parting with violent intent, muscle rippling as a snarl draws forth once more, fangs bared with obvious intent. Bow- or die, Letum. He doesn't like dirty paws.