:::not here for my _{confessionals:::}

The forest was eerily quiet.

Nary a breeze stirred the boughs of the pine trees whose watchful forms had become sinister, hulking figures in the darkness. The heat of high summer was too oppressive for most animals to even have ventured from their dens, and the undergrowth was unusually void of the rustlings that frequented it on normal nights. The lanky form of a wolf wove its silky way between the trunks, insubstantial as smoke. It's eyes glowed a sickly yellow in the murk, casting a pallid halo across its face that brought its ghastly features to focus. Another dark and heady night, another silent grave-walk. The wanderer heaved a sigh, quite bored with the world. It had been far too long sine he had been lucky enough to stumble upon an unfortunate victim, and his pelt rippled with the discomfort of unsatisfied need. Moladion had at first proved a place of ripe pickings but, as the time wore on, it would seem that his infamy had spread and bantam flowers seldom explored far from their dens. What a shame, really. He was genuinely surprised that he hadn't been shadowed by a flock of admirers, lusting after his skills with desperate whines of desire. It was probably for the best though, as the poisonous little snake didn't have enough venom to deal with a gaggle of perturbed parents.

Malignus let a large yawn split his jowls, flashing a rather middle-of-the-range set of canines. They were impressive enough, but could be easily rivalled by those wolves larger in stature than he. Lucky for him, his greatest strength wasn't to be found in brawn and bone, but in his throat. He was a silvertongued nightmare, a plague with a vision, and everything that spilled from between his lips was preordained. He could talk his way out of any situation, or lie a course into any cache. Sometimes, it was almost too easy for the demon. Almost.

The sudden smell of carrion reached his questing nares and he turned his head to follow its beckoning pull, altering his path accordingly. It was a rich and earthy smell, with hints of worm and rot – perfect for a midnight feast. The wolf licked his blackened lips in anticipation, mind already picturing the banquet that awaited him. Around him the landscape adjusted a little,trees growing further apart so that the light of the moon filtered between the needles of the pines, dappling the ground like the flanks of a leopard. Malignus instinctively skirted the patches of illumination, playing in the shade like fawn, as though the bluebells that carpeted the ground were scorpions worshipping a desert sun. It seemed to the spangled male that it took him a small chunk of infinity to reach the carcass he sought. When the brash perfume of death assaulted him, he prepared himself to claim his prize and stepped beyond a copse of bushes with tail up, chest out and heckles lifted. Luckily, no other predator had yet touched the dead thing, and he relaxed his stance, falling again into his normal, skulking, German Shepard dog pose. The creature that littered the soil at is paws looked to the wolf as though it had once belonged to something almost as lithe as himself, a fox perhaps, or maybe even a coyote. Not that it mattered anymore. With a self-satisfied smirk, the warrior began to dig into the festering treasure, revelling in the easy way the blackening flesh left the bone, and the sweet after-taste of decomposition lingering on his tongue. He ate with head down and rump in the air, his tail waving ecstatically as he ripped at the swollen belly of his prize.

It seemed to him that his luck had inexplicably turned, and the monster couldn't have been more content.