The darkness hummed differently here. The child of stygian shadows blended effortlessly with the night — yet he did not belong.

Not here.

The evening’s rainshowers had left him soaked to the bone, only adding salt to the wound in regards to his current state; famished, unkempt, and alone. He had wandered to this odd corner of the world by sheer chance and now stumbled through the waving willows in search for… anything that could help him survive. A meager meal would be more than enough.

His parents had ensured that independence was instilled strongly within the brood and so the demon boy was not accustomed to feeling so helpless. But the fact that he had made it this far was nothing short of a miracle. It’s not that he had lacked the fire and determination to fend for himself, but the physical ability to do so. He had been capable of snatching a young or sickly field mouse when he could, though it only satiated him for so long.

It had been days since he had eaten by now and the journey was taking its toll on his young body. His path became more winding as his legs shook with weariness and his lids felt heavy over his eyes. Perhaps a nap would do him well to sleep off the hunger and all else that plagues him. Before he could figure his next move — likely to somewhere dark and safe — his disjointed walk became a stumble as he fell to the ground, his front legs splashing into a thin stream that wove itself through the swaying willow branches.

Mortis Fatalis

It seemed that lately there was little fresh air to find, but Mortis sought some regardless. The stifling scent of unwell wolves, the fear of death that hangs around them. The wolf he loved, so far gone that he seemed barely able to sense Mortis beside him - it was all so much. He scarcely left Hika’s side, but he found himself rising in the evening, with an itch to his feet. The Winged Heir left the den, and fell into an easy lope, swallowing the ground, and then pushing himself. Further, faster. Until he tore across the grasses, until he left the pack behind, and the woods were around him. The long branches of the weeping willows catching at his coat and his outstretched wings. And still, the boy felt he could not breathe. Grief clung to him like a second skin, mourning for one who had not yet left him. If only he could fly in earnest.

The sound of a soft splash shook Mortis from his melancholy. His head rose, and his wings stilled in the air in time to the stopping of his paws. He tilted his head to the side, frozen in space as he listened. Anything amiss was something to pay attention to these days. Who knew who might take advantage of the sickness of the pack?

Moving cautiously forward, he found a dark shape lying partly in a meandering stream. The pure-black creature was almost like a raven with the sheerness of the color. As he approached, he would see the canine shape of the young creature however. The realisation hit him like a blow, and he started forward with more speed. He crouched down beside the young pup, and reached a paw forward gently to touch its chin. Was it still alive?

"Speech"