"We're here to eat, Helleborr. Don't you remember? All the living flesh is gone from our shade family..."

Helleborr grunts. "There is too much life here," he complains, peering up toward the birds who so gayly flutter through the trees boughs many feet above their head, milky eyes staring up with contempt. They are delectable, yes, but so blissfully far from his reach that he despises their existence, blasphemes the vibrant colors emblazoned on their feathers. He imagines plucking them from their wings, sinking his teeth into their flesh if only to cease their grating chirps and to quell his growing hunger.

He whines. He is so very hungry.

Something is near. He smells it before he sees it, a putrid blend of testosterone and living flesh, so unlike the sweet, estrogenic decay of the pale women at his side. Briskly he yanks his head so that his snout points in the direction of the odor, the motion sudden and choppy like the spastic movement of a bird. He waits with a stiff gaze for something to emerge from the brush, the snapping of twigs and the stirring of foliage a sure sign of its eminent arrival.

It is an equine.
How splendid.

His sister's shriek causes the hair along his back to bristle like stiff wire, muscles growing taut in arousal, then slacking, though never quite unwinding entirely. He is now in the counsel of one of the living, afterall, and he, the reaper, seeks to remedy his ailment called 'life'.

The dried-out blood encrusted in his fur provokes something primal within him, reminding him of the hunger that claws and rakes at the pit of his gut and removing whatever shred of conscience he has left. He cranes his head down a bit to better catch his sister's hushed voice and her words confirm his dark thoughts. A wicked grin tugs at the corners of torn lips as he imagines how glorious it will be, spurts of blood staining their pearly fur with smudges of bright crimson. This rogue stallion's words fall upon deaf ears, and were he to know what wicked thoughts churned within this beast's skull, he surely would have turned tail and fled with that same appendage tucked between his legs. The very thought causes Helleborr to laugh, a deep, rumbling trill peeling from a maw forever stained from years of spilling blood.

Normally, one who bears such an affinity to his beloved shades would be spared from his blood-lust, but this one is tainted, you see, the darkness that enshrouds him defiled by smears of vulgar white- he is so clearly removed from the graces of their shadowy kin. A low vibration curdles like bile within his throat in response to Hecate's declaration, delayed in joining her as she moves toward their quarry, rivulets of slobber dripping from his lips as he displays his horrid set of teeth. "It will make for an excellent first course, don't you agree, Hecate?" His eyes do not stray from Vulture, their milky blue depths now swarming with an unsettling conviction.

@[Vulture]