His tongue slithered with serpentine likeness from the corner of his blackened lips, sweeping at blood and sinew that congealed and grew dry upon his upper lip, lathering the knives hidden beneath this shaded canvas with a new layer of bloodied glory before it fell hot and rich down his throat in some deranged attempt to sate the hunger that burned and stung with want and desire in his veins until they singed and scorched and the demons of his mind hissed their displeasure and brandished the claws of their blackened existence against the inner side of his skull. His head lowers once more, the obsidian swathed creature remaining in the shadows, the darkened forms moving to shield their King within a kingdom his own making, keeping his ebony cape free from any touch of the sun or light that may see fit to penetrate the darkened place he has created as he feeds. Lips part once more to bury into flesh so hot, the nightmare whom has plagued Moladion for so long, for so many years since the night of his birth within Judila, towers above his fallen victim, muscle and power rippling beneath the thickened blanket of his midnight pelt, the perfection of his form evident to any who look upon it. He is as all should be, perfect, flawless in his height and power, the undisputed ruler of the darkness of Moladion and yet at what cost has come such perfection? A form that offers him the appearance of the darkest of angels? His mind was never there, his body no more then that which attracts them, lures them, before the emotionless thing within is given to state it’s need to feed- as it does now.

This female had been foolish, drawn to the call of darkness and sin and the creature with the brilliant eyes of emerald green so like his sire before him and the Mother they tore from the earth for her crimes against Angels. She was not very old, this one whom he feeds upon, two perhaps, yet the creature has no ability to perceive age. He has no sense of self, no ability to understand. He feels only hunger and hate, seeks only the one he cannot find. Hidden from him, yes, they have hidden her from him and he must find her. One ear curves within the morning light, childish screams mingled with the cries of another creature seeming to carve at the air, grating against him, teasing that blackened mind into life as he steps away from his fallen victim, much of her consumed already in his burning need to sate the hunger that lashes against his veins. Yet already his mind is fixated on another target, the screams drawing him from the shadows and down into the depths of the earth. He moves in utter silence, black form twisting within the fogs of the pack land, the border entirely ignored as long darkened limbs carry the fractured creature over it. He is bound by no rules, he answers to no Alpha, the true Demon King of Moladion does not bow and perhaps, compared to he, Iromar is full of nothing more than those who pretend to play with the word ‘demonic’. His bloodied muzzle lifts to the air, breath rising like smoke within the cold of the morning, pulling the scent of youth and warmth from the air and sending his towering obsidian form forward.

He follows their childish cries, dead, unblinking eyes falling upon them as they play, saliva pooling in his jowls to leak and drip to the earth below as his pace increases, the creature, the nightmare, gliding across the earth on silent blackened wings as he fixates upon his target, the black female, Avery, the child’s attention drawn to the gator she toys with so unaware of the incoming darkness the slices the land. The flesh of pups is tender, the small ones do not struggle so much, he remembers there taste, desires it, is drawn by the weakness of innocence that drives the demons of his mind to frenzy as a deep, horrific sound coils from within his throat, those broken, scared vocal chords having ravaged his voice long ago when the Angel King’s teeth pierced his throat so that his snarl comes free a twisted, screeching shriek of hate and anger, a single warning the echoes across the empty pack land before he lunges, coming from the side, bloodied fangs parted to slice into the side of the child to grasp her in his fangs and violently shake the life from her.

He lives only to feed, without Aaliyah there is no connection to this earth, there is no need to struggle to feel. So he does not. He hungers and mauls and devours and if Avery has not been fast enough he will crush the bones in her body and tear her flesh apart. Perhaps the Demons of Iromar call Ishtar their Queen, yet in their lands this day walks the King of Hell, to whom all bow.