It is at the beginning of the twilight hour that he emerges once more from the darkness of the forest trees that ring the fields he has come to reside within. His own scent is thick and layered here, luring him again and again each evening they he is often given to return to his den amongst the free lands in the depths of the night. He is a creature of habit, mind fixated upon his obsession for repetition and as such it has taken him many nights to learn to return to the darkened fields in which She of Scars and She of Red and White exist. It is they he returns too, his possessions, often with bloodied feast between his blackened jaws to be shared between them and the small ones She of Red and White guards with violent intent, driving her fangs at him each time he draws to close to either of the male children whom carry his scent, his blood and yet agitate him all at once. Instinct demand he tolerate them, refuses to allow him to bring them harm and yet this demons of his mind claws and hiss and whisper wicked things to his mind until he is driven to frustration and sent from her. He hunts still within the open lands, dragging carcasses to his new den within the fields or into his den within the valley to be stored for later, to rot and season within the earth until his hunger should strike once more- for it always does. Hunger is a relentless thing, a maddening thing that lances at his mind and drives his onward each night until the bond of imprint tears at his soul and the scent of mate lures his ebony form back each night.

The night is yet to fully emerge however, the nightmarish creature alone atop those rolling plains as he prepares to venture into the open space of the night and the embrace of his own silent kingdom. They rarely dare to come near- those others of Asteraia, they whom bow to She of Scars. He cares little of pack or bonds or tasks, his mind fixated only upon that which matters. Survival- and as such he offers them no words nor kindness, teeth snapping at any whom dare to encroach upon his space for he holds littler tolerance. Yet his dominance is demanded each and every time, those whom yield willingly spared the wrath of his fangs while those whom may see fit to argue only seek to enrage his unstable nature and temper most volatile. He does not consume those whom hold the scent of She of Scars- yet it is through no command of her own, they merely bow, they accept his kingship over them and as such his mind is soothed, content, willing to allow the breaths to remain in their bodies unless they remain foolish enough to tread upon the thin lines of his nerves. Yet they stay away, more often then not, they seem to fear his obsidian form as it hungers within the night and prowls the open landscape, lacing his scent upon each and every crevice of the field pack. His. All is his and no others, they…they whom bow are his possessions, for him, for him only and no others and though perhaps the mind of She of Scars does not see it as such she would be more the fool to dare correct his wretched mind upon it. For he is possessive of what is his own, obsessive and as such the pack land remains secure, protected by its Angel of Death and King of Demons as he wanders on haunted paws amongst the dens of sleeping wolves each night- just as he will this night when the last rays of the sun are given to give way to the first tendrils of dark shadow.

For now he merely waits, form of utter perfection and beautiful blackness a mere shadow atop the fields as he stands, eyes of frosted emerald cast upon the setting sun, unmoving, unblinking- untainted in mind or body by the sight that exists before him- for he cannot perceive beauty any more then he can perceive time, trapped within his own vile word of endless torment until the very bridge of his sanity is given to creak and groan beneath the weight of his impending madness. He is no more than a shell, he does not exist not truly- for he is nothing but hunger and desire, instinct and flesh. He does not feel- he cannot and as such he merely stands, oblivious to the fading warmth and sinking light that he does not see and does not feel, what thoughts exist within his mind cannot be said as he merely stares with blankness ahead, waiting for the light to fade and for the night to coax him softly into its embrace.

The very image of King atop his kingdom- though it has always been so. For he has forever ruled the night and for the first time…others simply exist within it. They are his possessions, all of them, each wolf whom calls this land home. His and his alone.