He sees them, emerald eyes of deadened reptilian green focused upon the group that mingles, the odour of heated flesh drawing his lip upward to reveal the sharpened daggers beneath that have sliced and open so very many and feasted upon the innards that spill so readily from parted flesh to bath teeth and tongue in a wash of scarlet life. He knows them. His wretched mind coiling like a vile serpent about those individuals he remembers, his fractured existence able to identify the Angel King, the one whom had nearly torn his throat open so many years ago and indeed he recoils from this, recoils from the aged King, his mind unwilling to allow this again. He remembers to the towering black male whose children he had sought to consume, remembers the rage of the Paracon King from days of old and the heated black and gold of the female, Kiska, though her name does not part his lips. The others he cares little for, knows their scents and yet this is all. They are nothing but meat and marrow to be consumed and yet….they gather together. His mind recoiling violently from this. He dislikes large groups, has learned this lesson well- he cannot fight so many, cannot consume what they will not concede. They will protect the young, the broken and the old, they will not allow the nightmarish creature to take what is his right to take. He is death. He is its bringer. H alone is the true Angel of Death that glides upon ebony wings with silent approach and takes away those to weak to cling to the fragments of life his jaws seek to sever. Yet still they fight, still they gather and still they will deny him his meal.

He waits, concealed from them and some distance away. He has returned to this land, to this place, for his mind seeks an easy male, that fractured, vile place remembers the limb torn free and seeks to finish what he has started, seeks to feed upon the flesh of the three-limbed male and this day he hunts him again, halted only by the sight of others who linger and yet remain still oblivious to his presence as he rests within the shadows of his kingdom, the darkness moving to obscure his form, emerald gaze no more than a haunted glow beneath the trees as he watches and watches still. A deepened growl slides within the depths of his throat, teeth bared momentarily in disdain as the demons of his mind shriek and scream for the meal that lingers before him and yet still he will not come forward, will not step into the light of day to meet those before him. He it out numbered and for all his violence he is not a fool. Instinct wards him back- yet those eyes slice sideways, watching as two females part from the group (Malina and Neveah) and his towering form shifts, parting from darkness like living shadow to slink like liquid obsidian through the trees and undergrowth, following them, watching them, hunger clawing within him. He will take them, he will have them both and yet-

His motion is halted, deadened eyes unblinking turned upon one of red and white as he comes and indeed his mind recoils. He wears the look of She…She who he remembers. Lips fall back across his fangs as saliva runs in rivulets from his lips. He will not hunt those whom carry the Red Marks on White Pelts. She forbade it. He remembers and he whom has come looks as her, his mind…confused as it turns, the two forgotten as he slides within the undergrowth once more, circling wide around those whom have gathered before settling within the darkness again. He will wait. One will falter, one will fall, the weakest amongst them will be clear to his mind soon enough and it is they he will take, whomever should be unfortunate enough to wander away from the group, to wander from safety and into the waiting jaws of death that fester and hunger in the darkness, dead eyes upon them…waiting. The weakest will show themselves, this is the law of nature and the only law to which Tobias answers. The sound of running draws the Demons attention, the reek of fear like the sweetest perfume seeing each vile instinct within him burst to life as he moves forward on silent limbs. One of them has run, one of them has fled from the group, a black one, seeking to race through the shade and shadows in which the nightmare lies in wait. Each muscle coils, saliva once more leaking from his jaws as the terrified wolf runs and the blackened hellion explodes from the undergrowth in a shriek, damaged vocal cords assuring his growl is more akin to a hellish, ravaged scream as jaws seek to close upon Vidar’s back right limb, to grasp the fleeing Vidar and rip him to the ground, to snap his leg and to feed upon his writhing body……else run him down should his attack have missed, long striding limbs and rippling muscle seeking to consume his newest prize as he falls upon his next victim....