The beast had grown in the space of a month. What was once a tiny bundle of mottled brown fur is now a bigger, badder version of before, lean and wiry, yet still small. The thin aspect of his bones and muscle was more to do with lack of food than anything else, yet Moth was always satisfied that he got at least as much as Rex, and was always either first or second in line, only preceeded by Rex, and followed instantly by Albtraum in the line up for food, pushing the girls away til last and giving Merridew the bones. Yes, Moth was easily one of the better fed of his siblings - not that counted in mass.

The three month old male sat far from the edge of the drop off, both intrigued and [despite all he says] afraid by it. The curling mists provided a sense of calm, so he was at one with the world, instead of against it. It was a music to him, a music so full of forbidden emotion, of carnage and sweet sweet notes, a music like the works of Ludwig Van, a composer he had never heard of. The mists and the cliffs heightened his awareness, created a space for him to react more timely, as if moving in rhythm to the coils of some translucent instrument.

His mother, upon taking some of her precious time to see them, had taken them here once, briefly explaining that if we go over the edge, we fall and die. She also said that if you looked closely, you could see the dead running through the smoke. She had said that Enigma's spirit rested here. Enigma, his father.

Pfft. His lengthened snout gave a customary sneer. Father? Sure, father had an excuse but dear old em was not dead. What was her excuse eh? In not applying attention to her sons and daughters? Now, Moth liked attention, but not in the snivelly, pathetic way Dewie did. Moth liked to feel power, feel it resonate from his claws, his eyes. That passion glimmered in his burnt orange eyes when he got the chance, when he came into his own.

A growl escaped his lips as he crunched into the dead bit of wood he was chewing on, giving up on peeling away the bark for an instant of anger. Spitting out the crumbs, the mottled pup strode with venom to the edge of the cliff, looking over his balcony. He felt his muscles twitch with the need to do something. In frustration, Moth looked down. Out of the sliding vapours, a... a what? A landing spot? An edge? A ledge? Interesting for sure. An inspection started on the Drop Off itself, as Moth looked at the ground for signs of climbing or scrambling wolves.

There it was, definate signs of something jumping from the edge, and definate signs of climbing back up... That meant - Moth looked over the edge again - there was something down there, something that the fog did not want him to show. The sharp young mind took photographs of the ruined lichen, scratched stone and disturbed rocks.

A sigh escaped his mouth, sending further tendrils of steam into the air. Through his rhythmatic breathing dancing to the tune of the Drop Off, Moth caught a new harmony. A sweet and deliciously exciting prospect of trouble making, in the making. He sneered, then composed himself to what he was doing previously.

The orangey brown pup rolled his eyes vigorously at her comments, and had to grin as she came waltzing over. Moth ignored her blankly as she sat next to him. Within mere seconds, he knew his plan, well, it was a plan that could go all horribly wrong, like any plan really, but this could top all of them thrice over. . . . And what does the fortune-teller see in the fog down the cliff? Ghosts? Monsters? Death? Moths head turned very slowly, like that of a clockwork doll, clickety clacking on its joints. Bloody orange eyes flashed in a childish, evil sneer. He smiled once, then parted his lips and said, very innocently. Me.

And with that, he jumped, very spring lamb like off the cliff edge. For a second, it was just like flying, he was weightless, rippling through the air with ease. That was until he started falling. As soon as he cleared the edge of the Drop Off, his limbs began to flail, and something that partnered with panic was telling him this was a stupid idea in the first place, and that he was going to die. Not long after that thought, he crumpled into solid rock, mainly chalk based on a small, forgiving ledge.

Slowly, he untangelled himself, looking back up through the mists, where he could just see the shadow of his sister. The following smirk made up for any stupid notions he had before - Mags would not know what hit her! He gave a silent laugh, concious to the echos of the Drop Off, the procedded to look around. A small white mound hung to the back of the overhang, with a shiny black stone upon it. Moths head cocked to one side as he pondered this anomaly, then looked back up through the dense mist with a slight shudder, awaiting sound from ahead.

The smells were easier to tell apart now, now that he'd stood and calmed his body calmed a little. The vapours clung to his nostrils along with a thick chalky smell and an essence of rottenness. Sniffing the air with a forced silence, he turned back to the mound behind him, shuddering a little even for this crazed pup's mental metabolism. His orange eyed gaze ruptured the vapour above him, then after a glance back at the mound, he resoloutely ignored it and began to scale the cliff face.

He grinned at her nonchalence, and stopped, halfway up to listen. Hah! she thought he was really dead! That was good, sooo good. This would screw her up for the century, or at least spook her enough to lose that visage she wears. Rex was right, she was sure like her mother. Moth's confidence fluttered around his pelt now, giving him more malevelance [if thats possible]. The pup shifted his lithe bodice around a bit more so he could secure himself on the rock face before allowing another broad grin to cover his face.

Then there was her laugh. The laugh that echoed their Em's so similarly she might have ripped it from her throat. It smelt of demented honey. Screwing his nose up a little at the notion, he started up the cliff again, orange and brown fur being swallowed by the mists. Then there she was, thinking she was Queen of Everything. Moth's burnt eyes combusted in a flame of pure joy. The little bit would not know what hit her, being all lordy lordy on the mountaintop.

Upon finding better footing he waited, waited til she was a little closer perhaps to the edge. Brows narrowing, he tensed his stringy muscles and leapt onto her front, clamping his jaws into her scruff, and wrapping his forelegs around her neck in a locking embrace. As they fell, no panic this time with dear old Mothy, the small male tightened his grip with his paws but let his teeth go, rolling round in the air so that she would hit the ledge first.

Aww. My appypolly loggys droogie. But tis not I who snuffed it. He whispered in her ear as he saw the ground behind her slowly falling into place, from which in her position, she could not. They would just be falling and falling and falling - til they died.

He merely grinned into her face as she screamed, loosening his grip so that his legs would not be trapped beneath her when she hit the ground, which was coming up right.... now. Not quite as ready for the impact as he thought, his thin legs crumpled a little against the rock, causing him by the art of gravity to collapse slightly onto Mags. Quickly, he repositioned himself so he was merely above her with his paws either side of her head.

Mottled ears rammed forwards with an inquisitive tone, cocking his head to one side as she tried to insult him. Moths thoughts returned to the momentary lapse of character as he grabbed her from the top, her disbelief, her fear. That singular moment he would treasure forever. The panic in her eyes as he brought her down, that rainbow of feelings that surely could be on the same level as passion, that sensation he had felt in the pit of his stomach.

She laughed again, this time in utter hysterics. He rolled his blazing eyes and gave her his most cocky of looks, waiting for her to get a grip on her deranged self, head spinning with perhaps more plans for fear and dread and mischief. Who knows what he will become in later years, but it sure is guessable.

You cad. Neatly, he raised a brow. So, this was the angle she was going for? Fine, fine, fine. He could play along with that. Giving his complete reindition of puppy dog eyes, he pouted at her, going all hurt and sorry looking, not that she would be fooled. His speech changed too, for he knew how to speak around the elder class, and it was his most politest speech, the one he used for getting out of trouble, but he knew in this case he didnt need to. However, most words were still made up. My sorriness, ma'am, for the grievences I caused in the past few minutos. Please, if you would forgive my horrendous behaviour.

Then he winked, keeping his place above her like an overpowering lord to his lady. Her tone turned devilish, sweeter, too sweet, and as she did so he purred, wanting to give in the temptation to pummel her to near death now, rather than wait. No, no, wait. Let her gain some trust, then the harder little lady here will fall, and the more fun he shall have. A grin pulled up on either end of his jaw. I dont quite pony that Miss. You govereeting you interevessovat my fashion? More fool you.

Pardon me miss, but tis not I that has to 'cut the act'. Came the sniding remark of her brother, who stood possessively over her with uncaring ease. Moth's brows arched as to reinforce his statement, licking his lips at the same time as though eyeing up a lying meal. Thou spendeth so much of thy precious time trying not to be so akin to thy Em. Thou be gloopy enough to miss thou art her in rebirth. The words slid out of his mouth like burning oil, setting and fixing themselves around that area in time, and wound around Mags' neck. It was now up to her on how she should take it, but any at all would amuse Moth to the full.

She yawned, and however much Moth tried to fight it, he held his head higher than before, giving a regal, arched appearance to his neckline. His nose wrinkled in distaste at the stench of the vonny wretch. If it was one thing he hated, it would be the bad smells that lingered on other wolves. A growl as deep as he could get it pulsated in his chest, trying his hardest not to rip her lower jaw out from under her breath.

. . . Its not like I fancy you. So don't let things get to your head, good sir. He had to laugh at this, as she placed her paw on his chest. Moth knew he was easily the best looking out of the Edryd spawn, and that, even in these early days he had a certain charm about him that allowed him to get what he wanted - which was usually a good time [leave that to your imaginations]. However, in the here and now, he was repulsed, yet amused by his sister's proclamation, which further inspired yet more ideas of pain inducing formulae, ready to be kept for later use. The others were not as fun as this, however much tormenting Halia and Merridew was hilarious, and taunting the others amusing, something told him he could make Magdelene hurt from the inside; and that, dearies, is all that matters. Oh my poor aching heart.

Mags laughed again, causing an eyeroll to be commenced by the mottled brown wolf above her. He waited for her to finish before commenting on the gigglefit she had just issued. Do you notice, oh my sister, sammy lots of dear Em in thou? It isnt flattering you see.

Then she obviously thought it a good idea to bite him, which was, evidently, a bad idea. As his face contorted into a mad, angry snarl, and eyes burning a deeper orange, he let her draw blood, allowed her to take her time and pull away, before he did anything back. Well, well, well droogie, why dont you ask him? He replied, his muzzle blistering with the cold kill he wanted to make.

With a precise movement, he grappled her neck between his jaws, and pressed down. Without looking at her face, he dragged her smaller, feminine body over to the mound, chucking her form by the black, oval rock. Letting her go with his teeth, Moth replaced the avenging canines with a paw pushed against the base of her skull, smooshing her face into the chalky mound. Shouldnt have done that droogie. Shouldnt have done that to your dear brother, making his krovvy spill. Now, it isnt very nice, is it? Righty right? Right, right right?