He was growing increasingly bored. He enjoyed Sylva, he'd admit that, but it had been so stagnant lately he was growing ever-antsy. He was growing restless...

He was growing hungry.

He craved chaos. He practically thrived on pushing people over the edge, of creating trouble wherever he set his little hooves. He longed for the reign of the wraith king, when things weren't so simple, when the autumnal forests had a little excitement. Longing turns to anger as he remembers the white wolf's abandonment. He had left his post as quickly as he had received it, and Mortem just could not understand it - he had left Beqanna peaceful with his disappearance. Wasn't it Gryffen's goal in the first place to keep the fairies on their toes?

Fucking disgusting. 

Dark feet traverse the dense underbrush of the forest skillfully. He had grown accustomed to the shadowy wood, he just wished there was more mystery to be unfolded. Everywhere he looked it was the same - a horse here, a squirrel there, a fucking leaf in another place. 

Could a guy get any sort of sadistic pleasure around here anymore? This place used to be a pool of blood, an orchestra of screams. 

Fuck.