So it ever was. So will it always be. Such is the nature of evil.
Indeed it was a foolish endeavor that Sever set out upon in her mannerisms to seek pity. Nothing could inspire pity in the eyes of Underidge; pity should not exist for with pity the weak were allowed to thrive and grow. To fester and spread like some indignant species upon this earth. Those had had freed had been both for their own weakness but also in respects to the wishes of his divine God, the Shade, the same god that curled and rubbed against the very marrow of his bones. The same god that dug his claws deep into the nerve endings of Underidge and demanded complete obedience when he tasted upon the air the very souls with which he would capture. It all served Underidge's purpose anyways for those too weak to save themselves were not to be tolerated. Yet he wasn't quite sure yet whether Eden figured the same. It was only because of such notions that this meeting does not deteriorate quickly.
Instead his eerie pale eyes slowly swivel around to spy the huddling figure that cowers and begs for attention with her pitiful voice. It she had come in brazen with her head held high then he might have been able to figure out what a puppeteer she was, and yet Underidge could master such arts himself, for his own father was of the same ilk. Clever he was, although he lacked the flowing speech or the glorious figure that his father boasted. Underidge was a lean, wraith-like creature. Silver fur pulled and taunted at flashes of the shadows of his undercoat and his speech was coarse, sometimes smooth but often using tones that were perhaps not supposed to be applied to what he said.
"Do I look like the alpha to you, whelp?"
His words are growling and fierce for her meek manner gets his ire up, his teeth flashing from his lips as he turns in a slow coil towards her, ears back and to the sides while his hackles rise. Such a form she gives that demands he torture her with his villainous presence. She cowers now but he would
make he cower, he would give her a reason to be so fearful and placid!
"Figure it out yourself," he growls, and his tenor turns deep and foreboding with a rough hewn growl mixed in. Nothing at all like the silvery tones of his sire.
"What is it that makes you so weak?" The last words hold a furious edge, obviously angry at such visible weakness and yet they are curious. Why? How was it so possible for a creature?
UNDERIDGE
THREE - MALE - NO HEART - OPHELIA'S SOUL
OF GLORALL - ENDERLY X BANSHEE - KILL COUNT (II)