Little Fiery One

When Alastor returned to Alias Island, the first thing the demented brute did was go straight to the eastern shore again, back to his children's grave. He sat beside them under the oak trees once more, gazing off at the darkening horizon as the sun ebbed away into night. The wet drip-drip-dripping of blood fell from the wolf's muzzle and limbs, spattering the earth with liquid crimson, the only other sound around besides the lapping of the ocean waves. For the longest time Alastor sat there in silence, staring off into the distance with a thousand yard stare while his fractured heart and fragmented mind tried to make sense of everything. His paw rested over the pups' grave, almost protecting them from some unseen enemy, his paternal instincts still raging strong. His blood dripped from his injured leg, dampening the dirt he'd dug to bury them beneath like some sort of macabre tribute. Maybe the more he bled for them, the more forgiveness he'd earn to atone for his sins and inaction. Quietly under his breath, Alastor sung a lullaby for his babies, the only one he knew from his childhood. His eyes burned from the many tears he shed, and would have continued to weep had he any left. Now all Alastor felt was drained and empty, hollow like a husk with nothing but residual anger and sorrow simmering inside his black heart.

Once the sun had fully vanished and engulfed the world in cold darkness, Alastor soaked himself in the ocean to try to wash most of the blood off of his fur and then began to make his way back to the den, walking with a bit of a limp from a deep gash on his thigh. He'd killed so many predators and prey alike today, he couldn't recall exactly what had made which injury on him—just that he had triumphed over everything he faced. Everything save for this. The Mendacium man trudged up the mountain path to his family's den and walked through the entrance as if he hadn't been gone all day. Irilyth immediately rushed from her room when she saw somebody entering, attempting to stop him from heading towards Manea until she saw who it was. Alastor was only vaguely aware of the little servant fretting over his condition, mostly tuning out her inane tittering as he dragged himself towards their bedchambers, his eyes vacant and empty. Again Irilyth tried to stop him with bandages and herbs, but Alastor shoved the servant out of the way with a snarl of bared fangs and black fire flaring in his eyes. "Get the hell off of me!" he snapped. Irilyth backed off then, hovering off to the side, but no longer pressing him or irritating him.

Alastor limped his way into their bedchambers, his long fur no longer slick and sticky with blood, but still dripping from his open wounds that had gone untreated. The first thing he saw was Manea in their bed, looking at him aghast and relieved at the same time. She called his name in a shocked gasp, but Alastor didn't respond. His obsidian eyes shifted down to the sleeping little fireball tucked protectively at Manea's belly. Seeing his last living child from this litter still well helped soothe his heart some, but he was still far from the same. He regarded Manea with those same empty eyes as he hobbled over to the shelves they had on the walls to store their items, grabbing a small vial of ginseng extract and downing it to help restore some of his lost energy from his psychotic episode across northern Boreas. He'd carved a bloody swath through the northern lands, no doubt leaving a sight to behold for whatever poor sods came across it. Alastor said nothing to Manea at all, instead stumbling his way over to where Manea was lying so he could check on his daughter. Irilyth hovered by the bedroom door, waiting to see if she'd be needed to tend to Alastor or if she should give the tempestuous couple their privacy for whatever was about to go down.

As he drew closer, Alastor's hard gaze softened upon his fire-marked little girl, his last remnant of his second litter. He hadn't expected this to be as hard as it had been on him. He'd never been the sentimental type before, but something about this tore him up inside and made him feel useless. "I took care of the burial," he muttered to his wife, not once making eye contact with her while he spoke in low, flat tones devoid of all feeling. "They're someplace nice. Peaceful. Not that you care." The last sentence was spoken hard and with an edge to his words. Alastor didn't care if it hurt Manea to hear; in fact, he hoped it did. His eyes remained on their daughter, reaching a tentative paw out towards the sleeping bundle of fur and puppy fat, going to gently stroke over her back if Manea didn't stop him. "What did you name her?"

"Alastor Mendacium"