How many times does this make it? This, another near death, a swing and a miss for fate to rid the world of this massive demonic entity. He is viciously scarred, delightfully so as he has once again earned them. His left ear is tattered, torn asunder from the jaws of the might foe who dared to try and fell him. The jagged edges of the appendage still sport faint scabbing and though it is winter, a few hardy blood sucking flies feast on the tender spot. His face had also been cut and torn, parts of his cheek are bald and patchy with new skin, his left leg from the hip down to the hock sports another gruesome scar. This one is three large gash scars, evidence of his underwater battle with the beast of the swamp. The wound had bled profusely, and the meat torn from it had been devoured by the alligator, Baphomet's fury unleashing in the silent stillness of the chaotic current beneath. Even as the pool stilled, and the alligator seemed gone with their Demon King, Baphomet fought and won. He is a true survivor, a warrior to the core, and as unyielding as his bloodline would suggest. He is brute strength and he is returning from his watery grave on this balmy evening.

It is a strange thing to have hidden away so easily in the depths of the rarely traveled swamps, to only come out in the earliest part of the morning when he was sure everyone had retired. Oh how they had searched for any part of him to grieve over. Oh how he longed to go to his family and embrace each of them, to show them he was alright. This way was better, however, it hardened them even as they sat idle. The fact of which is no consequence to him, he was the one to drag their team here, to take up residence in the den of Angels and watch as they came tumbling down. This is what he had been instructed to do, not them. Andras merely offering to help, Ishtar coming because he went, all of them for that reason, if he were to be honest. How then, could he stay hidden from them if it was because of him they were here? How could he let their pain drag about like a dead limb through the muck and mire of Iromar. Oh how her song, her silent grieving song made his heart break and tear a new. He had wanted so badly to go to her, watching her dark form as she took a stolen moment to herself, to comfort herself as he could not. She had proved something to him then, shown him something he had known was there but never truly saw. She loved him, and that was all he needed to get him going again.

With the fuels of his fire stoked into ignition once more, Baphomet had set about regaining his strength, his senses ever on alert for that damnable alligator filth. His wounds had slowly healed to scars, and his body was once more fit as could be. He rather liked the way he looked when his dark prismatic eyes met the still pools of silvery water. And it is this night, rather peaceful and engaging, that he lets loose a rumbling melody. It is the song of one awakened, his deep voice easily recognizable to his kin and to his pack, or rather, Ishtar's pack. He sang for her most of all, a beckoning howl for her ears. His dark melody came to an abrupt end, his black and red visage once more watchful of his surroundings. Who would come first, the pack, or his beloved?