He walks with an aura that can only be described as perfect confidence. Each step is deliberate and heavy, the intention to move forward deep in his sun-set hued eyes. He is the Demon Lord, the leader of those who linger in the land of Iromar. The blackened figure touched with the charred flames of hell. He is one with an intent most sinister. He only wishes to bring pain to those he finds weak and worthless. There is a dark joy in overpowering life that so desperately wishes to live. And yet, Andras isn't out to play on this particular day. The brute of the darkest obsidian and flaring russet wishes to seek out those to join his pack. Those who are of use.

That is what he looks for on this day. The spring is fresh, with a nice breeze and soothing temperatures. Andras blazes forward up the river, which feeds into the bogs and moors of his territory. He had marked what was his, what area was not to be entered by strangers less their heads be bitten off. But after he finished his marking, he traveled along the cool water's edge in search of loners lingering in the open.

Loners could be most useful creatures. Often times, they are desperate for something more then their lonely existence. His eyes search far and wide, aware of the fact that no one wants to be alone. They all want purpose. Reason to live. They want their names to be heard and their songs to be sung. This, Andras could provide. He now held the power above all in his pack. Ishtar had left, back to hell where she likely belongs. Andras would welcome her back, but he knew deep down she would never bow to him, and once Andras had tasted power...he knew he could never bow to her again either. Yet, today that was of no concern. Today, he would seek out the loners that litter the land, and he would increase the numbers of his pack.

The brute barreled forth through the longer grasses, bits of foliage leaving their mark upon his scar-laced fur. His head is held high on this day, with the sun causing the unscathed parts of his fur shine with blackened glory. His nose inhaled the sweet air touched with the perfume of flowers, catching the scent of his imprint Lillith still clinging to his fur. A smile cracked on his visage, one fang slipping from the split in his lip. A gruesome sight from wars past. He so enjoyed the scent of his female stuck upon him like honey. It is for her he lives and exists, and for her that he must bring more strength to Iromar. With a strong lope, his muscular form lands upon a large rock that allows him to view the land from a higher vantage point. Muscles ripple as he stands tall, like a statue built to perfection as he gazes across the land. If he catches the sight of one, anyone, he will set his eyes upon them, and if they do not come to him, he will be sure to come to them. He cannot let an opportunity to gain numbers pass him by.