The earth had turned softer under his paws and brought back distant, faded memories of the earliest of his days. They were not so far behind him, but the first few weeks of his life were foggy and broken in his mind. He supposed it was the norm - not that he'd ever really chatted with other youth about it. In the first year of his life he'd been all but glued to his mother, rarely leaving their den with the exception of meals. Unlike many fatherless children, it was no secret to him what had happened to his own sire; Ishtar had ensured that Zaqar knew who his father had been, how he'd lived and how he died. The idea that he would one day be required to fill the position Baphomet had held still intimidated the young man from time to time, but for the most part he was eager to begin his life as heir to the Demon King.

On this particular spring day, the ground was firmer than usual due to a recent lack of rain, but mud still seeped between his toes as he emerged from his den and padded through the swamp that was Iromar. The warmth of the season strengthened the scents of his home – mud, water, and in places carrion. Some may be put off by the landscape, but there was beauty to be found in the mire. The water was dark, though not stagnant, and upon its surface bloomed a variety of plant life that aided in the concealment of the scaly beasts that swam and stared with beady eyes. The only bothersome part was the occasional half-eaten carcass that some wolf had left to rot in the sun. The odor brought back the only vivid memory of his first season: his father’s death.

Zaqar did not dwell on the accident; these things happened, even to the best of wolves. His job, now that he was older and understood this fact, was to carry on the legacy of his parents and grow to become a leader as great as – and perhaps greater – than Baphomet had been. It was a heavy task, but his mother assured him he would be fit to carry it out. However, she also warned him that secluding himself was no way to go about being an heir. It was this that had brought him from the familiar cavern that had been his den for the last year.

Only moments after his emergence into the fresh spring air, the howl from the border met his ears. Instantly, he sprung into a bouncy lope, his russet limbs covering ground rather gracelessly. At the moment, he was still growing and had reached just half of his adult size; he was not yet the powerful and impressive wolf he would one day become.

Zaqar’s pace slowed as he approached the stranger and the pale man with the equally pale eyes. The boy had seen Paldor before, but they had not spoken – the same was true for most of the pack – and the white eyes with no pupils never failed to send a shiver down the black yearling’s spine.

He arrived at the tail end of Paldor’s greeting, and padded softly to sit parallel to and slightly behind the white wolf, starting curiously at the newcomer with his striking violet eyes. His ears, for once not showing his insecurity by flicking around, remained forward in interest. The large, dark male was clearly a demon – at least, he was marked as one. The youth stared for a moment longer and after glancing once at Paldor, addressed the stranger with his own words. “What brings you here?” It was perhaps an unnecessary question, but one that was logical to Zaqar. Shifting his eyes sideways to the white figure beside him, he hoped that he wouldn’t be deemed insolent for speaking up.

Z A Q A R

one | male | no mate | no imprint | iromar | ali
last son of baphomet and ishtar