So it ever was. So will it always be. Such is the nature of evil.
There is little Glorall offered in the way of entertainment for Underidge and despite how bland his tastes were sometimes he needed a change in scenery. The frequent yipping and howling of newborns grated on his nerves for even though some might not even notice it his ears were attuned to even the slightest of sounds. He did not go to see them - why would he even desire such? The only time he might wish to see the helpless forms was to put them out of their sqwaking misery. How swift it would be to kill them, he thinks absently, just the slightest tightening of his jaws and they would pop in his mouth and quiet finally. So he had picked himself up from under the rocky ledge that he had claimed (who needed a den anyways?) and took off at a grumbling with the sea at his back.
The winter had seen his figure slim down even further while simultaneously he grew taller. He paid no mind to either of these things with the exception of his long coarse hair that had thickened considerably in the winter. It was fine in the winter but now it gave him a patchy look, as if he had the mange, and it itched like fleas as it worked its way out. He stops in the woods with the raucous sound of crows cawing in the branches and leans his silver coat against the roughened bark of an elm tree. Back and forth he rocks with a pleased growl erupting from his lips as the patches begin to tear out. It is a sort of relief from the annoyance and when he pulls away the black of his undercoat shows through like shadows shifting beneath fog.
He, too, is unaware of the sky above for he is caught up in the relief of this. As he turns around to work on his other side the patter of a raindrop on a broad leaf makes his ear flick. But Underidge presses on with his task until the rain lets loose in a torrent. It creates a gruesome scene as it soaks through his coat rather quickly, darkening the silver and black and making him look half mad with patches still hanging from his side. The bark would soften slightly beneath the rain and it would lose it's helpful nature, and for that Underidge snaps his ears back onto his skull and glares at his surroundings hatefully.
The water is only bothersome because it seeps beneath the strands of his hair and trickles down his skin in a familiar itching pattern. It is this that pushes him towards the familiarity of the grotto at a brisk walk; he follows the curve of a rocky wall until he curls into an entrance and comes face to face with the female that is Paravana. For a moment he pauses so that his eerie silver eyes settle upon her rainbow-esque ones, his own narrowing at the sight before they drop down to her distinctive markings. Socks, a cape, red and cream and brown, she is a myriad of patterns and colors.
He supposes that saying hello was the proper way to go about things but Underidge does not do things in the exact order that he is supposed to. Instead he grunts a sort of greeting before moving inward and seating himself abruptly on the other side of the cave wall but in line with her. He does not sit with his tail curled prettily about him, he just sits and turns his eyes on her once more.
"In winter it is cold, in spring it is wet, in summer it is hot, and in fall it is loud. Is there never a medium?" His voice is almost sibilant in tone, falling and rising in spots that it ought not in normal conversation.
UNDERIDGE
THREE - MALE - NO HEART - OPHELIA'S SOUL
OF GLORALL - ENDERLY X BANSHEE - KILL COUNT (II)