Who can say how long the dogs of this land will last with this monster in their midst? Who can say the monster will even last as long as he thinks? In his mind he is not invulnerable, though he is as damned closed to perfection as he will ever get, his own twisted mind compensating for the apparent madness that runs through him. Truly, only such a creature can exist the way he does by one way only, his own insanity telling him he is sane and wiping his conscious mind clean of the event while keeping his instinctual self soothed and cat-like in its twisting purring quality. But, this is not the true way of it is it?
Nay, the black brute knows what he does, actively seeks out his victims to kill, searches for those who would fit his appetite that day. He understands that for some -their moral code making this so- his acts are seen as crimes against the wolf. But truly, are not the predators here for predation? You must be strong or be eaten in his mind. There is no grey area, there is no buffer that can tame his way of thought. He finds an odd enjoyment in the way his kills are made, a rather child-like playfulness taking him over when it comes about. If he feels hungry, he thinks over what to take to fill the void in his gut. Wolf or otherwise, he is The Devourer, he is the abyss that the fool hardy came to gaze within, only to meet their fate in a rather terrifying way. How many others would fall to his hunger? How many would confront death and try to leave unscathed? He knows not, cares not, for truly he is unable to care. He cannot find that particular emotion within himself. Even as a young cub, Maugrim had been different.
He had watched the young ones play, staying away from them. Not understanding himself at that point, Maugrim had always wondered what they looked like, tasted like, if they played and their hearts beat faster, would they die quicker? His sickly green eyes would eat them up, his intensity quickly warning them away, telling them there was something wrong. Seriousness had always plagued him, for he could not understand play. He fought with the older males, to test himself and taste them on his tongue as his small needle-sharp fangs pierced them. As he grew, they no longer wished to fight him, no longer enjoying the fact that he could out wit them. He had grown quickly, and upon his second year, Maugrim had taken his first victim. She was a female he had been rather taken with, and in a frenzy of flirtation and lust, Maugrim had ripped her, stripping her flesh from her and consuming it. His mind had blacked and he was a hazey reflection of those wretched beasts that are lost forever to the Berserker rage. When he was finished, he watched the light leave her golden eyes, the last bit flickering and then nothing. He ate, his black coat dripping with her blood, his stomach bulging from being filled so thoroughly.
He had returned to the pack lands, high in the hills of Scotland, where no civilized wolf could hope to go. A proud smile was on his face as he confronted the female's father, telling in sick detail of what he had done that day, telling him even where he might find her bones. The monster had left nothing save the cleaned bones of his once flirtatious friend. And from then on, he was an outcast. He had fought, had stripped the skin from many of his former pack mates, devouring the meat in front of their eyes and meeting their gazes levelly as they chased him off. Pain was a hard lesson for the male to learn. They ran him down over and over again, his paws quickly earning cuts from the sharp rocky faces of the mountains, his hide earning gashes and tears from his pack, and all the while the monster laughed at them. He laughed and laughed as they ran, each time one of their jaws locked on him he would turn and snap, grasping whatever he could. After this, Maugrim hunted them down, staying on the outskirts of the pack lands, waiting for one to be unfortunate enough to follow him out. After one year of dedicated eradication, Maugrim had killed every member of his pack. Most of it was thanks to sheer accident, a mis-step off the mountain side, a gentle nudge over the edge to send them screaming into the pit. The males all fell this way, only a few earning the traditional stripping before he sent them over. The females, however, were not so lucky. Once he had all of the males out, Maugrim edged back into the pack, some of the stronger females trying to chase him off. The following winter, only the weak were left.
His hormones raged, and he massacred every female and pup left within the pack lands, by this time a five year old Maugrim emerged, his thirst for misery fully engaged and his need for more egged on by the most recent death of a rather fun little female. It is here Maugrim learned patience, trickery, and strength. It is here that he molded himself to be the perfect killer, here that he learned to be stealthy. And now all of this, and the five years he spent by himself, has come to Moladion. His appetite is larger than ever, and he will kill more and more often. Beware, ye children of Moladion, the monster is risen and he will find your beds, he will take your lives, and laugh at your mother's sorrow before he has hers as well.
"Speech!"