A return to the darkness was in order. He shook the light off his fur, shedding it like a second skin, as he slinked into the oppressive closeness of the grotto. Some gentle night wind stirred his fur as he wandered through the looming mouths of caves and the towering spires of rock. The stars above glittered down upon him. Eyes, it seemed, were always upon him. Whether it was the watchful gaze of the mountains in the distance, the fierce stare of the sun, or the distant, scornful eyes of the stars, Onias could never shake the feeling of being observed. That was what many did, after all, if they were smart. Despite his average, or even weak, appearance, when one came closer they could almost smell the scent of death on his fur. He was a harbinger, a judge-- the undertaker, as some had called him before.

With a jerky movement, Onias leapt up onto one of the outcroppings of rock that rose above the ground paths. He settled down onto his belly, the cold, slippery texture of the rock making him tremble. The mimic was nearby, or perhaps he wasn't-- while the foxlike male got his wits about him he supposed it didn't do any harm to let the strange wolf wander. If he met enough wolves, maybe he'd be able to string a sentence together. The thought made him snort, giving a lopsided grin to no one in particular.

He had met many here so far in this Moladion, this land of magic love and political wars. It was not chaos that he sought to sow, but simply a sense of something else, which in and of itself could create unease. But, ah, was he not an uneasy fellow to look at himself? There was a certain something else, after all, that seemed to follow him, haunting him like a spectre. Onias did not mind it, always at his back-- it gave him some sort of drive, after all. He wasn't terribly interested in finding out what happened when it might catch up to him.

Onias lay there for a while, before he drew himself up into a sit, orange gaze fixed upon the sky full of stars, the night wind ruffling his fur. "थे पोवेर योउ गवे मे इस नोत बेइङ्ग् मिसुसेद." (The power you gave me is not being misused.) He murmured, with a quick glance behind him-- as if speaking directly to the dread ghost that followed in his pawsteps. Nothing spoke back, but he could feel it throb with the weight of his words, as if it had been satisfied for the moment. Onias shuddered. His secret, he supposed, is that there were things more powerful than even him. He had been called many names-- delusional, sower of lies-- but it did not make a difference that he knew what lay beyond what they all could see.