For years he had fought against becoming what he now is.

He had fought against the encroaching shadows, had resisted the aching hunger that told him to seek out fear and despair; he had clung to the boy he used to be before that twisted labyrinth of nightmares had changed him into this. He had refused to accept that that boy had died in those writhing tunnels — refused to think that a piece of himself would always be lost to them, and that this, this is what he had been left with.

That felt like a lifetime ago.

Whatever thin control he’d had was now lost to the darkness, and he cannot remember when this self-imposed exile had even started. There had already been so few that could make that monstrous heart of his beat as if he were truly alive, that could make him feel anything beyond the desire to feed. He can’t afford to think of her anymore; Despoina is buried to the far recesses of his mind, safe, her sorrow no longer greedily siphoned by him.

Everyone he sees now is prey, and prey alone.
He doesn’t kill them, of course. He doesn’t need their flesh and blood; just their fear, their sorrow, their rage.

This place is rarely in short supply of that, though he will admit things have been dreadfully peaceful as of late. For so long there had been disaster after disaster — kingdoms leveled and sank, families torn apart. Fear and sorrow were rampant, and he had grown almost lazy with no longer needing to hunt.

But now, he slinks through the dark of the forest in his canine form, the shadows of his fur melting easily with the dimness of his surroundings. It is easy for him to remain undetected, his steps virtually silent. He has been tracking the mare for some time, although it’s largely unnecessary. There are easier ways to get what he needs from them, but it has become a twisted kind of hobby to trail them and see who they are when they think no one is watching. Usually the fear that floods them when they do finally become aware of the shadowed-creature with the haunting eyes following them is all he needs.

She trips, but instead of falling she spins into something shadow-like before becoming solid again, and that is the only thing that causes his predator brain to pause, something else briefly overriding it.

He is drawn to shadows, but not because of what he is.
Shadows remind him of his father, of his siblings, and of Beryl — things that he had maybe once cared about.

And all at once he is slipping from the protection of the trees, shedding his canine form in favor of his equine one — still made entirely of darkness, but the shape is less threatening, save for the unsettling crimson-glow of his eyes.  “Are you lost?” he asks her, his shadowed tongue softening the gravel in his rarely used voice.

The fear that had briefly raced along her spine still hung in the air, lingering and enticing. He knows how easy it would be to feed that fear — how quickly they can go from being on edge to falling off of it, with just a little guidance from him. Fear to him is like blood to a shark; he wants to follow it, wants to devour the source of it, and it is infuriating to him how insatiable that hunger seemed to be.

But there are other things that he is hungry for, things that the monster does not crave but the long-lost boy always will. Her shadows distract him from the most base feeling of hunger and divert his attention elsewhere, tugging at his curiosity and prodding that aching pit of loneliness that he can never escape.

“Then I suppose a welcome is in order,” he says, his dark lips curling into a smile. The subtly shifting shadows of his face detract from what might have been a kind gesture, and shield much of the emotion that a normal face might have been able to portray. There are days where Torryn forgets that he is a monster; most often in conversation, when words flow and he thinks himself only as the blue roan boy born beneath the shade of the Taiga trees, sheltered by his father’s shadows. He forgets the way someone else might see him — billowing darkness and glowing-bright eyes — and that his very presence evokes anxiety and insanity.

He could almost forget entirely, if not for the faint wariness still radiating from her.

“Torryn,” he responds with his own introduction after hers, the intensity of his gaze never lessening, until he finally gives in to what had drawn him to her in the first place and comments, “I saw you dissolve into something like shadows. Have you always been able to do that?”