It is….wet.

He is displeased.

One large blackened paw is pulled backwards from the muck and ooze of the swamp land, rivulets of water cascading down the thickened black fur as it is returned to his form, mud easing and running down his darkened limb to part thickened and sodden fur as the nightmarish male is held at bay once more by this sickening swamp. Reptilian eyes of emerald green look upon the sodden earth, head tilting slightly to the side as unblinking eyes simply continue to stare as if his fractured mind seeks answer to why his path is blocked, lips pulled back in a fleshy curtain to reveal the knives beneath that have brought death and decay so many, many times before. A rumbling growl coils and rolls within the depths of his ravaged throat before he moves to stride forward, sliding around the swamp, paws finding the solid ground with a practised ease as he wanders in swaths of mist and fog. He does not hunt this night, no, his stomach is filled with meat and blood and the demons of his mind recline in blissful repose from a night spent in blood-filled ecstasy. The sun is soon to rise, his den within the fields still far and indeed it is he seeks the darkness still, seeks a place to rest until the sun sets once more and those rays of glaring light and folded behind cloud or pulled with screeching and bloodied complaint back into the jaws of darkness. He does not travel in the day, the light burns at his beautiful eyes and yet he has more then one cave, more then one tunnel hidden within the bowels of Moladion itself. Yet to reach another of his hidden places he must pass through Iromar. He does this often, moving on silent blackened wings like the truest Angel of death.

They do not stop him, perhaps they have never seen him, or perhaps even the so-called Demons of this land will not stand in the way of one whom resides on a darkness they themselves cannot fathom. He dislikes the reek of the bog, this pungent smell of decay that reeks of disease of something long dead within it. Tobias does not feed on disease. He consumes weakness, not that which has died from sickness. Long limbs and perfect form continue on this silent trail, a path he has walked many times through the depths of Iromar for indeed he has paths through all packs. Borders mean nothing, they cannot command him- as no Alpha can, the blood of so much domination curled within himself, burning hot within his veins. He was born Prince of Judila, born of the blood of generations of alphas and submission does not exist. Yet this night he brings no threat, merely seeks the shadowed path he knows so well, avoiding the early rays of sun that seek to penetrate his pelt with sickening light and burning heat.

He steps down once more, passing like an obsidian shadow behind the dens of sleeping wolves, paws silent atop the earth as breath coils like smoke within the air and the creature is given to pause, if only momentarily, though none can say way, those deadened eyes peering within the mist and gloom, expressionless features like cold and dead stone as he simply stares. Perhaps he has sensed another, become aware of a beating heart, somewhere within this abyss of swamp and water and mud, perhaps he simply inhales the scent of damp and fertile earth or indeed it may be he simply stares, paused upon his path in these moments before he shifts, continuing once more, walking ever straight as the rising sun bleeds out across Moladion, driving him further into shadows, using Iromar now for protection as he head deeper within the pack, seeking only to cross it before returning to his own hidden den once more.

Perhaps the wolves of Iromar should be privileged this day- to have the true King walk among them.