The wind whistled through the caves of the Grotto, wailing like a banshee into the night, causing Ferox to plaster his ears to his skull in a vain attempt to drown out the sound. He wondered again why he had chosen the Grotto to visit on such a blustery spring evening, but could find no satisfactory answer to his question. Far above, the indigo sky spread across his head, spangled with stars still winter-bright. They glowed quietly, content with their lot, and he watched them gravely, his purple orbs gleaming with their many white reflections. He pondered their existance, wishing that he, too, could be as peaceful with the life he had eked out for himself amongst the Angels of Diveen. Although he was one of them, he knew that they regarded him as an outcast. True they loved him, and also true that they were glad he had returned to them, but he had lost his place. He was no longer heir, without hope of ever following in his legendary father's pawsteps. Instead he was a guard, keeping his family safe, doing what he had failed to all those moons ago. And this was enough for him, for the moment. But soon, all too soon, he would seek to rise in rank again. He wished to be noted for his wit, for his intelligence and not simply for the muscle he packed beneath his pelt. Still, Isola had trusted him with her family's safe-keeping, and she had invited him back into the fold without hesitation, something for which he would be eternally grateful.

For a moment, he was reminded of his mother, of Zeivah as she caressed him with her tongue, warming him with her flanks and nudging his brother, Seraphiel, to her teats. His heart ached for her and he felt a brief flash of anger towards his father. It was true, he knew of the old male's daily forays, making the rounds, visiting his innumerable ladyfriends. Ferox detested it, not understanding how Heyel could simply disregard his mother. He had not been able to move on, she was eternally on his mind, so how could Heyel? It was something of which they would have to speak when next they made aquaintance, something he knew he could not put off for much longer. He shook himself to rid his head of the uncomfortable thoughts and followed the uneven line of the crags to his right, which dissapeared into the distance. Moladion truly was a remarkable place, burnt and battered and yet so full of life. As though he had summoned it, a small mouse exploded from the mouth of a cave to his left, racing across his paws. Without even thinking he bent his head and snapped it up in a single bite, instinct having taken over. It was a glorious mouthful and revelled in the rich tang of blood on his tongue.

A sharp bark emanated from somewhere across the crags and he turned to snuff the breeze, on the alert for any approaching wolven. He had been warned that the Grotto was a place for vagabonds and demons, a place where little light touched and where hearts were cold as the stone that surrounded them. Naturally, these tales had piqued his interest, and the Angel wondered whether his presence, so full of light and vigour, could lead a few of these dark creatures to be redeemed. Or at least purged. Even if he had to do it with his own jaws. His grin was sardonic as he prepared to launch his rather massive bulk into the darkness.