he could care less now.

It is in the deepest of shadows that the beast resides though his mind is even deeper inside the darkness. Months have passed since his arrival, nightmares of night and dreams of day morphing together in a crazed blur. Some faces are vague, mere remnants of those he had met yet others are more prominent, tainting his thoughts and staining his mind with memories he wishes to forget. It was not planned, this band of misfits and misogynous demons. Death attracts death and for that reason they had been drawn to him like vulchers to a rotting carcass. Like satan himself, he welcomes them into the fiery pits of his own personal hell.

It turns out the Viking King had use of them.

He did not care for the individuals, no that emotion he was not capable of feeling. Blame the wars and the years of watching his brethren destroyed, or blame that day when he had to kill his own legion. No one was safe, if rules were broken he would punish without a second thought and that is why he could not care. Each one mattered, however, to him and the other insane bastards of sacrosanct. This horde had a purpose, believe it or not, and it was time for them to meet, all of them. The Utlagi had been officially called out for duties.

That didn't take long.

He breathes, his muscled mass hidden in the depths of the edges of Hyde Park, the moon attempted to find him through the clouds though unable. Steam falls from his warm nostrils, disappearing from him into the night like a fearful presence. His mind is quiet this night, the voices slumber deeply from a satisfied meal. Remnants of such an ordeal lingering on russet flesh, staining his dark pelt. He wears it like a trophy. Slowly, lazily he stirs, his thick frame rolling to his paws as talons dig into the earth. His head tilts, body stretching that length of him as his mouth parts in a savage yawn. Tongue slips out from him, sliding along his whiskered maw. And then, from inside the darkness comes a deep, guttural roar of a call, rolling from his mouth like thunder and washing over the cool grass in waves. The sound vibrates from him, like a musical melody promising victory and gore. Strength and prowess.

A paw steps forward into the moonlight, talons gleaming as the darkness sheds from him like a reluctant lover. He moves forward, another paw, his bloodied torso, mangle mane, those crystal clear eyes that leave you craving a mother's touch from the fear that his gaze elicits. It is like a show, the curtains of black part leaving the lion standing in the limelight, a scene from a horror movie truly. But it is cut short, for not all within the horde are of were decent, and he must speak to them all as one. His body breaks, the sickening sounds of mutation breaking the silence that fell after his call. Tendons stretch and retract, tattooed and scarred skin breaking forward through the ragged pelt. His jaw grits, naked and sweating body bare and shining. He breathes in his knelt position, hand rising for a moment to slide through those thick locks. It is a brief moment as he attempts to bring his mind from feral beast to a controlled one.

Well, as controlled as the Blood King could be.

He gathers himself, the presence of others drawing near, and reaches for the laid out black slacks beside him. He slides them on, looping the leather belt within them. His top half remains nude, a shirt unnecessary, let them see the scar littered flesh, the subtle hints of blood from his recent kill that remains faintly upon his sweaty flesh, see the years of ink that he gained through therapy from the madness. Let them see all of him. Maybe then they could get a slight understanding of the crazed battleworn viking.

Maybe.