It is her scent that lures him from the bowels of the earth this day, that musky odour that is she, that for a time most long has lured his presence and yet perhaps none can say why. She is as He, she is not for eating and this alone has become the premise of their relationship, for she alone exists as one whose blood is not to be swallowed and feasted upon as others. Like him- yes, like him and this is all the demons of his mind need know as it is those darkened paws carry his frame of ethereal grace and blackened beauty across the surface of the fields as the sun begins to set within the sky and those vile pillars of light leave little more then the illumination of heat against her obsidian pelt. The serpentine green of his gaze his cast aglow in this half-light- for he has kept them waiting for some hours this day- refusing to come in the light or sun- for it pains him so. It is only now that the true Demon of Moladion decides to make himself known, sliding upon the earth like liquid oil to make his way towards the banks of the lake she rests beside, her scent intermingled with others that bring his paws to a halt. That tongue parts from his jaws to taste of the air like a snake, ribbons of saliva leaking and pooling upon the earth beneath him as the scent of young blood seems to stir that hunger within him. She has brought food for him this day, sacrifices to be feasted upon, meat to be shared between them as he strides forward once more.

He comes from within the shadows and lashings of darkness themselves, departing the confines of his kingdom to tread upon the banks of the river, those deadened eyes falling upon her now, unmoving, unblinking as his head tilts and turns and fur so thick and full parts and shifts with this motion, the scars upon his neck and frame shone clear within this moment before they are swallowed into the embrace of the fur that allures to his perfection, the most perfect of all males, the divine specimen, a dark angel to be praised and yet one tainted with a mind of utter ruin as if the blood of so many…of Alpha upon Alpha has brought only destruction to his mind. He cannot be conquered, cannot be made to bow and in this notion cannot be made to see sense within the world. He consumes- for he is darkness, destroyer of the weak and yet still they will not praise him for his work.

The sound that coils from within his throat is a hideous thing, the vocal chords within ravished and destroyed beyond all recognition so that all that arises is hiss and screech to announce his presence this day. There is no touch, no gesture of affection, nothing save his eyes upon her own for the barest of moments, a silent acknowledgement of an acceptance long forged and little else as he turns from Stella now, fixated instead upon the male child. Lips pull back from the bloodied teeth behind them, stained in a pinkish hue from the meal he has already consumed as the heckles upon his spine lift as darkened knives. He can smell her upon them….within them and yet his mind can not understand the bond of mother to child, cannot perceive this connection of blood, belives only that she has claimed them as her own and that in turn they are his to take- for they have shared meat before. Saliva runs freely from his jaws in this moment, the blackened giants sized increased all the more in anticipation of the hunger soon to be sated as his steps move closer and closer to the boy-child still before those giant paws are halted, claws buried within the soil now that seems to recoil from his mere touch. He does not turn to her, does not acknowledge her, Stella, he merely speaks in that wretched and haunting tone, words forced from the violent destruction that is his throat.

“For….me?”

He is mere inches from the boy child now as that graveling, rotted voice seems to find place upon his lips, though he loathes them so as he pauses, waits for Stella to come to his side and feed with him as each muscle rolls and coils beneath his pelt in anticipation of the blood to follow- dead eyes still held against the boy, unblinking, unmoving- as cold and dead as a corpse itself born into some undead state of life.