It was the time when the sky was dark and only pins of little lights glimmer above. He does not discount the mysteries above as many would seem to think upon first meeting, and perhaps the brute of the Iromar moors could even appreciate their subtle beauty. They were useless to him in many ways though, almost all ways, and were simply a part of the scenery. He couldn't taste them, couldn't touch them, couldn't smell them. He could only seem them not even half of the time. Yes, pointless they were other than providing the dimmest of light on moonless night. At least the moon had a purpose.

He considered all this and the world around him as his black paws slowly edge along the damp ground. Fall is coming, time seemingly to go on endlessly as he makes his way towards his personal throne. Even in the starlight, the red upon his black seemed to stand out like fire as the rest of his charred bodice seemed to sprawl out into the darkness of night. The master of demons was content on this night, calmed as he reaches land of rotting water and a graveyard of bones.

The smell was absolutely delightful. It was sweet and alluring. Death surrounded him like flies to a fresh kill. He had seen to it that this small part of his land was a shine to destruction and chaos. He had gathered many bones large and small, left bodies half eaten in the shallow water near by. His own sense of smell was a twisted one, his own mind wired in a way that what is disgusted to most is pleasant to him. He feels his fur stand on edge in a demented glee as he inhales the cooling air, his torn lip slipping with his dark grin as he steps upon skin left from death past.

Only then does the silence of this moment break, his concentration snapped as he hears a call in his lands. Naturally his eyes of sunset narrow, head lifting as he listens for a call to him, a call beckoning. Andras does not respond to the call of those who are not proven to be deserving. He does not flit upon paws in childish delight when someone wishes to see him. If Vainglory wishes to see him, Vainglory would come to him.

He allows the song to play out, his form of muscle, hardened with age, comes to sit among the larger throne of bones, surrounded by the largest of antlers from the grandest of kills. In dominance he allows for silence between calls, after a moment his own muzzle rose into the air. The demons of his voice stir and his song of reply in deep powerful tones carries through the land of what is his. His reply is simple and commanding - come to his throne, for he will not come to you.