His skin had been broken, opened up and left to ooze down his otherwise perfect obsidian coat. God of Shadows, Lord of Death… all that he is and knows himself to be, yet he still bleeds like mortals do. He is not immune to the sensation of pain or the perils of it. He feels every tear into his skin but his instincts are removed from the situation. He does not react as those with sane minds do; he continues to fight and blocks the pain for another time. A time when he does not have teeth raised against him in defiance.

Darkness coils around his behemoth figure as he moves in synchronization with the shadows. The festering plague of Blossom Forest who will haunt the minds of those that are asleep and stalk them mercilessly when they have awoken. His need for culling the unworthy had been ignited years ago by chance… by his sister. Her master plan had sparked the flame that now burns within his mind, feeding into the darkness that was already inborn. Time and again he found himself craving the addictive power that came from taking their inconsequential lives; the elation of being the one that feels a heart stop beating for the very last time. It eases the pressured demands of the monster in the back of his mind. But it will only quell it for so long.

Now, as the shade clings to his stygian form, he weaves slowly through the trees of the moorland that is so similar to what he once called home. It is quiet here. To say he enjoyed it would be a stretch, because it was rare that the abyssal creature felt anything at all unless blood was involved. Still, there was some form of… contentment that settled within him at the lack of cluttered noise within the murky wood. Because of this, he finds that hearing the younger pup scamper up the fallen tree to be much less of a challenge.

With his most recent endeavor foiled by the interruption of a blue-eyed male and two wildly colorful females, Zagan feels an emptiness that needs to be filled. He had lost yesterday and that loss has to be made up for.

He continues to move slowly and quietly through the murky woodland with amethyst eyes intent on finding this unattended child. Her scent is carried by the wind and into his nares, the savory innocence of it pulling him into hunting mode as he neared her location. The soft, rhythmic sound of the waterfall concealed his approach but it would not be easy to reach her on such a narrow log over the water. His mind moves quickly and he decides to step into the cool water to her left without a word. The blood from his wounds swirl and taint the crystalline pool with its dread and his handsome head turns up to eye the girl momentarily, hoping that his battered image will draw some pity from her so that she will draw nearer and off of her tree.