A pitch black shadow moved against the ones given life by dancing flames, lacking the elegance of the supernatural figures on the wall. The more he pondered about their two-dimensional forms the stronger became the conviction that they were spirits, perhaps hideous ones. But Pandemic D’Angelo could not escape their eternal presence, for there were members of the pack assigned to breathe life into a flame once it doused and died. There was no salvation here. Then again, this was all he knew, and he did not shy away from the known.
The dark child found his father in the kitchen, and inhaled the lovely stench of copper and fresh death. It was a well-known smell that promised substance if he was a good boy. Pandemic was always a good boy—or, at least, that was what he tried to be. But sometimes there was power in his body that he could not properly control. His weakest sibling was the one that had suffered most when the dark boy became too rough, but his intention was scarcely ill. He just did not understand his own strength.
Drawing up to his father’s busy form, Pan’s gentle jaws aimed for the back of the adult’s heel; the boy’s usual greeting.