...

Moments pass by and impatience begins to eat away at his being. He licks his jowls once or twice in anticipation and yet no one has come to greet him. What type of outfit was Andras trying to run here anyway?

It is when a mere child approaches in silence that he scoffs; a female and hardly even three years of age yet. But there is something of interest about her that catches his singular, pallid eye, that scabbing wound just beneath the layers of fur. The girl had been in a skirmish of sorts and had managed to make it out alive - perhaps there was some hope for her after all. Although even the interest that had taken place in the wound soon died down and he was left alone and in reticence with the strange pup. He was never much for children anyhow.

Finally, a creature of notable position arrive upon the scene and though she appeared to be a suitable specimen from afar, he notices her white blemishes upon closer inspection. Perhaps it was that the rules were bent a bit more here in this moorland faction of Hell. Or it may just be Malacath's own pretentious standards coming to light. He shouldn't judge too harshly, after all there were many demon bastards who sired litters outside of the hellish breed, perhaps she was the result of one such event.

Before she mutters a word it is clear what her position is within the pack, no less than a rank just below Andras himself, and when she speaks she only confirms his assumption. It is not a surprise when her voice rolls from the tongue in a gravelly manner for the life of a demon was never an easy one, though he did not care to delve into why she sounded just so.

"Malacath, of Hell. I have come to find Andras personally and to join his ranks. I have waited years to finally make the journey here." He musters the words to explain himself and his position, the deep timbre of his voice resonating in the midst of the trees just around them.