So it ever was. So will it always be. Such is the nature of evil.
An itch permeates beneath his skin. One that is not born of the Shade, his god that rests coiled within him, a snake ever ready to take on the world. It is not that born darkness that shifts beneath his silver-tipped fur. It is the same odd calling that had him sneaking into the plains, ears laced back, and nose driven to the wind. The same kind of itch that made him circle a scent, a den, until some loud, obnoxious wolf came barreling and he saw fit to escape the confines of the pack. Not out of fear of that little boy. Out of the repercussions that might come to Eden for his own sick desires. Still, this repercussions had occurred, and the packs of Molodian were snarling at one another, hoarding their members with devious glee. Pitiful creatures. Loud, the lot of them.
Underidge prizes silence, or at least, a bit of quiet. It is why he had been so on edge upon the births of his children. They were useless, loud creatures, but now that they had grown and become somewhat obedient (save for the wretch of a son he had), they were worth his time and attention. Eden had said so. That they would become worth something and so Under had agreed because what wouldn't he agree to when it came to his King?
The forest male, Dexter, had come and gone. He had not tested the wildness in the eerie, silver eyes of Underidge. Madness had always been a side effect of his life yet it had grown more emboldened with the death of Paravana. She had been something he truly cared for, even if his caring was not the same as that of others. But he had chosen his god above her - the Shade had demanded her soul to fill it's wicked desires, and he had given it with struggle, with hatred.
It is why he lurks the woods this night, that itch not sated, the desire to roam ever northern to that plains once more filling him. It is that leashed violence that stalks his jackal-like movements - he is the epitome of opposite. There is no grace in his movements. He is splintered, jagging back and forth, steps high and then low. Yet he is oddly quiet in his walking, stealth having been born from the darkness that rests within.
The moonlight is weak but it reveals a slip of gold agasint the edge of the border, a marked invisible barrier that he hovered near, both to lock others out and to keep himself in. So the moment that she toes the line, he appears, his lips peeling back to reveal yellowed fangs, silver fur bristling up as he darts right up to the line with his mad eyes flashing. It is there he stops, snarling, but he doesn't say a word, but his eyes say it all - come across, lady, and he will have all the rights to rip her to shreds. Eden would be pleased with this.... wouldn't he?
UNDERIDGE
EIGHT - MALE - NO HEART - STARSHADE'S SOUL
OF GLORALL - ENDERLY X BANSHEE - KILL COUNT (IIII)