The darkness was a balm, seeping into his flesh with cool, soothing fingers. Like a lover, the forest welcomed him, opened for him, and the King slipped into her waiting embrace without hesitation. Nothing stirred in the depths here; Nothing but ghostly shadows, sliding their wicked forms over gnarled and grasping branches. There was a hollow silence that filled the world, ebbing gently, like a pulse that could be felt but not heard. Overhead, the baleful eye of the moon watched on, grim and brooding as a bruising of clouds marred its pearly hue.
His claws scraped over twisting trunks, leaving small scratches there, leaving a scent familiar to all who dwelled therein. This world belonged to him, and he had snatched it from the clutches of winter and hardship, and impregnated it with value and power. But it had always been a beautiful land - Terrible, but beautiful. It would exist as such long after his bones had bleached in the winter, and were cradled deep in the dark earth.
The man's steps were silent. Something had stirred him from a pleasant slumber, one shared with the warmth of a golden-haired beauty and the two precious forms of his sons. Sirius Revlis had found his immortality, and he wore it well. His people all knew of the heir and blood born to the thistle King, and the kingdom had been blessed with his pleasant moods, so rare that they were as blistering and foreign as a Southern summer. But the brazen mirth did not linger in his heart, now; Something else dwelled there, an uncertain darkness, seeking the reason for the pulse of this night, searching for whatever thing called him out into the night and into the silence.
A glade was revealed to him, and the king emerged from the shadows. The moonlight spilled over his sumptuous pelt, and burned in his eyes, flames of purest peridot and most livid poison. Black nose twitched, and found a familiar unfamiliar. Sensing the burden of expectation, Sirius moved to the center of the glade, and there he sat - Eyes drifting closed, muscles still, till he was as a stone. Come to me, he thought, feeling the wind caress his frame.
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