This new freedom was something a boy could get used to. Ever since mother had left that one day, she was suddenly gone most days now too. Father was doing his usual thing, whatever that was, and Mother had stepped up to take a more active role since her recovery. Apparently, and he had only caught wind of this recently, the birth of he and his siblings had nearly killed her. Much as he appreciated Mother - he might even go so far as to say he loved Mother - the idea that he had nearly had a hand in murder on his way into the world was highly amusing. To him, it was only a sign. He would grow to be something feared, as should Hepzibah and Rome.

Locke had woken today hungry, as with most mornings since Mother had begun to leave them to their own devices. That would be remedied. Ever since the first day of freedom the boy had taken to scavenging, first with a taste of some ragged, old, scaly green thing outside their den. Maybe it did not taste as good as Mother's milk, but it had sated his hunger and that was enough for him to learn: if you are hungry, you eat; and it doesn't always matter what is eaten. Survival instincts were deeply ingrained into his bloodline, it seemed.

That mangled old corpse had nothing left on the bones but its scales today, though. Disappointing. Losing his easy meal had him dangling on a single nerve this morning, the ebony fur of his neck and spine erect in a cottony puppy mowhak as he sauntered off in search of a new source. Pitch snout to the ground, Locke stalked his way around the sodden marsh until the scent of decay, a smell he had come to associate with food, touched his young nares. He paused for only a moment, murky goldenrod eyes turning up from the ground to stare in the direction the stench was coming from. He had never been this far out, did not really know this area let alone what lay ahead. Would that stop him?

Absolutely not.

Locke started off toward the scent at a jog, his light, narrow frame hushed for an untrained puppy. A natural caution carried him low through the swamp grasses and mist.

Bleeding Heart. His siblings used that title here and there to insult him, poking fun at the splash of auburn on his chest that seemed to drizzle down to the top of his left foreleg. It was a rather... unusual marking, as far as Demon marks were concerned. As far as he knew, he was the only one with the "Heart of Hell", as Mother so deemed it. "Bleeding Heart", indeed. If he had anything to say about it, and Locke would make certain he did, the Heart of Hell would come to be known as one of the most prestigious and sought after markings a Demon could have. It did have its advantages, too.

While his siblings wore their colors high on their backs, like red flags wherever they went, all Locke had to do was drop his head in stalking position and... it was gone. Just another shadow in the reeds. Even the faded goldenrod of his eyes lacked a brilliance that might give him away. With his willowy frame and convenient coloring, the boy had all the trimmings for an assassin. Perhaps he would choose that path. After all, nearly six months of age seemed as good as any a time to begin focusing his skills...

By some divine coincidence, there was his sign. Standing in the swamp grasses over a supine body, the Grand Marquis herself came into view. Lilith; she had once been Stygian, as Mother told them, and a damn good one at that. Coincidental as her sudden appearance might be, Locke would take it as a "yes". This is what he should be. After all, who was feared more than the high executioner and master assassin of Iromar?

Locke witnessed Lilith tilt her head back then, a loud, silvery howl piercing the open mists of Iromar. It was a summons to all pack members and he would be an absolute fool to ignore it. Long legs parted the marsh blades as he stepped quietly out into the open, eyes flicking from the Grand Marquis to her prize and back. Much as he wanted to sink his teeth into the flesh of the corpse and satisfy his empty stomach, that inborn survival instinct warned him not to touch the prize of a wolf who would, hands down, best him even on her worst day. But, why had she called the wolves of Iromar to gather around the body of a dead man? She had not only his attention, but his curiosity as well.

Don't turn your back.
Don't look away.
And don't blink.

. l o c k e