As always it has been- it is the scent that brings him, that potent musk that permeates the fractured thoughts of his mind like a single shaft of light to spear the gloom of fortress so long secluded and sealed. One emerald eye merely rolls within his skull the fleshy lids of his eyes pulled back to reveal those gleaming gems within the fathomless black of his pelt that conceals scar upon scar within. The blackened curtain of his lip merely lifts, jaws parted to allow the red of his tongue to lull like a serpent from within and fall from the cage of his teeth- as if he seeks to taste the scent upon the air before that saliva strewn muscle pulls back to sweep at his jaws in anticipation of a meal he has been for years denied in the wake of her absence. He had been a child when last he had seen her, a pup upon the cusp of adulthood that had only just begun to exact the domination of his will and yet now….now he is a man aged, approaching his fourteenth year, the nightmare of Moladion whom had grown to become it’s scourge, whom has plagued the wolves of new Moladion just as old, followed in the wake of those whom had survived the meteor fall only to nip at their heels like vile hyena upon the herd of moving beats, waiting for the weak, injured, old, young or unguarded to fall behind and fall victim to his jaws. He had been their death, their reaper, purged the weakness from those whom had survived and still they had not praised him, not rejoiced in his actions upon them, merely watched with sickened horror as he tore the Taviora boys limbs from his still living frame, as he sliced open the throats of any whom wandered from Diveen or Iromar and watched in defeat as the children of his making were born from Flare, while the rivers of Glorall ran with blood from the victim he had taken, each pack, one by one- closing their doors upon the last heir to the forgotten Judila pack- the last Prince of old whom stalked the darkness in his rabid hunger.

He is doomed perhaps, to never be sated, to forever hunger for the rich taste of blood so hot and scorching upon his throat, mind forever driven to madness by the demons whom rage within and claw against his very skull, seeking, demanding, screaming for only more. Yet it is this madness that has made him…..a legend amongst mortals, a tale told to children in the darkness that keep them from straying, a beast rarely seen and yet forever hunted by those whom know, whom dare to remember and dare to believe he could live still. So many have tired- so many have failed, the male natures perfection in every regard, his frame, features, face…..crafted by Angels it would seem, for his beauty remains so exquisite, this dark winged Angel whom glides upon the earth in faultless strides and towards the scent of she he has missed. He is perfect- untouchable, a nightmare made immortal or so it would seem, the pelt of obsidian darkness that so omits him into the blackened night of his kingdom forever hiding the scars that litter his pelt beneath.

So he comes- like a Dark Angel summoned from the mists of the fallen, driven by the scent of her blood. He does not perceive age, is immune to the knowledge of time, cannot be made to understand this is not the wolf he believes her to be for time holds no mark upon him, fractured, ruined mind incapable of this perception as saliva pools within this mighty jaws and the blackened creature merely comes from the shadows of trees, a giant to her slender form, eyes of reptilian green held upon her, dead, unfocused, unseeing and yet held upon her all the same as they remain unblinking and his silent glide upon dark wings is halted before her soaked form. He says nothing, merely stands and merely stares – jaws parting once more to leak ribbons of saliva to the earth as his tongue again sweeps his lips and the heckles upon his spine lift like darkened knives, tail raising in evident domination each limb stiff and held- exacting his dominance upon her as he had done so many years ago- striding forward now, playing the game he had played with her as a child, so unable to see the truth. This is not his Jaylah. Yet it does not matter- her blood bares her scent and this is all his wretched mind perceives.

Closer and closer he comes to the female and yet he does not hold aggression, not yet, it is…a curiosity of sorts, head tilted and turned as he comes. His demand however is clear, silent, unwavering as always it has been- demanding her submission, demanding she bow and acknowledge his leadership and place above her- halted now mere inches from her, deadened eyes upon her own as lips lift from bloodied fangs in threat and a final, silent command. The same command he had given her……so many years ago.