We need to sow some chaos in this place. It has too long been idle.

The words pound over and over in his skull. It had taken several seasons before he fell into a rhythm with his father. Nyteshade observed as life spun around him, watching as it grew, failed, faded, and was reborn. Life was a perpetual circle and he had not known what his purpose was. Was there even a purpose to life other than to survive day by day?

Blackthorne seemed to think so. It burned in his father’s eyes, a fire of proportions that were astounding. The need, the desire, to crush and impose and create havoc. During those moments when Blackthorne let that fire consume him, Nyteshade also burned. He burned hotter than any sun when he joined his father in misdeeds. When they fought a pack of lesser beings, as his pristine fangs ripped into their fur and felt the rip of muscle. Felt the strength of bones cave beneath his jaws. It awoke the madness within him.

In those moments he grinned, consumed too, and the Darkbringer would look at his son slyly, with blood still staining silver lips: ”You are the Shade, the Shadowmaker. Eater of Souls.” Nyteshade would tilt his head, his blood humming from bloodlust. He liked the sound of it. Since puphood, he had heard about the Shade that their grandsire had raged about, had claimed to be embodiment of it, until even Blackthorne had taken his words and breathed life into them.

And those souls… those souls had tasted delicious.

They had returned to Molodian because that is where Blackthorne headed and Nyteshade followed, knowing that in his father’s wake he could feel invincible again.

Upon return, Nyteshade had split off from Blackthorne, wandering southward. When the time came for more havoc, he would seek out his father again, but he was curious how the world had fared in his time away. Would he find his mother about? His sisters? He felt a slight ache in his chest at the thought, pausing mid-walk as he tried to fathom what it was. Not guilt? Not Sadness? His childhood had been a rush of many things, but normal childhood emotions it was not, so he was confused at these changes.

He had grown, finally reaching his full height, though his body looked somewhat lean. His hips were narrow, a few inches shy of being emaciated, and his chest wasn’t quite as broad as his father’s. He was lighter in weight, leaner, and it reminded him of his grandfather, Underidge. Scraggly, his fur interspersed with tufts, bits silky and bits rough; his neck seemed perpetually spiky, the tips silver along the back of his neck. The tuft of fur on his chin hung down, as did the overlong hair above his eyes, casting a distinct slant to his pale silver-green eyes.

The echo of a displaced rock had his silver face jerking around, neck lowered as he stared into the darkness of the cavern that he had meandered in. ”Come out, come out, little rabbit. Don’t make me chase you,” the words burst from his lips in a singsong manner, malicious, enticing, his tongue swiping across his mouth as he grinned In the direction of the sound. He could wait. Nyteshade understood patience. It was always rewarded.