He watches- because he watches all of them from beneath the shadow of the trees, those emerald eyes aglow within the darkened gloom as the obsidian child with the oddly long fur simply waits, silent, concealed. He watches the other child as she acts, watches as she drags the bodies of two smaller pups back into the borders of the pack and for a moment his head simply tilts in some moment of curiosity. He has seen Father do such thigs before, though never sit upon them to hide them as she does, he has seen and tasted the blood and flesh of others and yet in that he seems unconcerned- for there is truly little that concerns the Little Heir of Tobias and Flare. For some moments still he waits, watching as she eats, the scent of blood upon the air ad indeed he does not move, does not stir- for blood so often brings the dark one, Father and Lonhro is far more cunning then that. He will not come until he is assured Tobias has not been lured from the darkness and the shadows or the confines of the den beneath the earth where he so often shields from the sun. Tobias is afraid of the sun, he thinks and yet such thought if fleeting in a mind like his own- one designed differently, one made of other things as at last he lifts to his paws. That long red, white and black tail trails behind him, the only taint of colour on an otherwise colourless pelt of utter obsidian, the very image of his sire with a longer pelt and strange, wispy guard hairs that afford him a look almost….ethereal, as if his form is not made of hard lines and edges but blurs and fades in a manner near mythical as he comes across the fields.

He does not know this child, though he knows her scent from the lands, head tilted and turned once more like a curious dog as he comes to stop before her, emerald eyes watching keenly as she feeds. Yet for all his silence he is a cunning creature, more cunning perhaps- then Tobias has ever been, a child blessed with the looks of a perfect sire and glorious mother and yet one whom will outsize both in time, a more perfect Demon and one whose mind is not so lost as those whom had given him life. He knows she is aware of him, for how could she not be, limbs carrying him in a lope to suddenly pace around her, his form gangly, approaching that yearling stage and yet the grace of his steps in undeniable as he floats about her, lunging suddenly for the meat she eats, catching it slightly, dragging it forward in his sudden motion before releasing it, pivoting, assured she would react by instinct and lunge forward to steal back her prize and yet it is this he waits for. His own form of ebony plunges forward again, the girl forced to rise from her second prize and leave it unguarded should she have attempted to get back her half eaten prize- allowing him access to this larger, untouched meal as he lunges forward to grasp it and claim it for himself.