<font color=430000 face=georgia size=1>YOU SHALL KNOW ME BY THE TRAIL OF BLOOD</font>

The click and clatter of those all-too-familiar knives in such irksomely close proximity to his worn and knotted face hardly succeeds in perturbing the monolithic beast; indeed the only motion given to betray that he has even taken note of this aggression on behalf of his �lover� is the languidly unhurried rolling of his single yellowed eye towards her. Whether her internal tempest was stoked to life by the pooling of hormones was of no consequence to him, her ire could never succeed in drawing even the scantest bit of apprehension from him. Her words, however, coax a ghastly sneer unto his mangled lips, something that is but a fallacy of true gaiety. �To speculate that I might possess one now is a testament to your naivete,� he snarls, fixing her with a knowing glance capable of driving a chill down to the very bones.

Abraxus turns from his mate only in the moment in which she seeks to address the moniker of each lazily writhing whelp, fixing one and then the other with admittedly unique titles. He had never been one to quibble over what his progeny might be called, for truly what simplistic titles they were given mattered so very little to him� mattered so very little to their survival, their ambitions. The latter was what he cared for most, if it could indeed be admitted that he cared in any respect whatsoever. These two young whelps would survive if they were deserving of such an honor, would continue to cast their respective shadows into every last corner of the earth if they could prove themselves equal to the challenge that was survival. But their ambitions, the darkness they would come to breed, the grotesque infamy that was their heritage and their destiny, their past and their future, was what tweaked so wantonly at his insides in a sensation that could have only been the most macabre brand of giddiness.

It is in this moment, as he considers the maniacal wrongdoings that his progeny shall inevitably one day perpetrate against the unknowing citizens of this ruined Moladion that he senses it. The pungent, acrid and masculine odor wafts into the constricted space, curling and coiling about every sensorial gland, singing the softened flesh at the back of his throat as some wretched and acidic wave of bile. Impressive coils of muscle pull taut over the cage of his bones, his behemoth body shifting with little effort even in this confined earthen tomb, Abraxus placing himself in the presumed zone of neutrality between those he protects, and this unfortunately daft soul who seems blinded by his lust for their lifeblood.

Even as this would-be intruder blunders about haphazardly, driven by such obvious malice that it he has seemed to forfeit all predatory cunning, at the mouth of the slender tube that was Harridan�s secondary corridor, no growl echoes within the confines of Abraxus� gullet, nor does he move to lunge, to snuff the proverbial flame of this proposed fool�s vigor before it has truly begun to shine. His lip, torn and incomplete though it certainly is, does not fold to unsheathe his impressive weaponry; instead he lingers as a practice in formidable doom, poised upon his well-muscled haunches, emanating the power for which he has always been recognized. He is marked by his silence, as whole and permeating as the still of a midnight tomb, laying in wait for the moment instinct has foretold.

A moment that is fleeting, easily forgone were it not for the intensity of his own predatory prowess. As the brute�s eyes adjust to the pervading dark of Harridan�s mausoleum, a mere second passing to bring them ever nigh to one another, Abraxus� looming heft explodes into action. The fleshy curtain of his lip curls back unto itself, exposing a cage of glistening ivory every bit as daunting as they might have been perceived, cords of saliva dangling in appalling pendulums from his gaping maw, a most sinister cacophony erupting from deep within his chest as the entirety of his behemoth frame is launched in the direction of this idiosyncratic newcomer, this predator turned prey. His motions are nothing if not entirely and impeccably calculated, the force of their collision meant to see both creatures withdrawn from the physical restrictions of the all-too-small den in a tsunami of scraping claws and grappling teeth. Abraxus aims his attack with deft precision, the vice-like clasps of his jaws searching readily and expertly for the tender tube of his opponent�s throat, though his intent is hardly to allow this presumptuous vermin the consideration of death heralded by asphyxiation; no, instead he seeks only to clamp, to eviscerate, to tear and to torment as he always has. If it was true, what Harridan had told him, if there were Demons in old Moladion� then surely this unfortunate vagabond had plunged himself into the very pit of Hell.

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