Ebony arch rise and swell as chin is tucked closer to the broad chest, a silent asservation of words oozing and dripping like poisoned fluids from the lips of the beast. There is little to add, few questions demanding of answers and revelations - at least for the time being - and so the thrice impaled stag remain silent, content to listen and learn, eavesdrop on this touching reunion of creatures most foul.

A silent breath of unease slips from between those charcoal speakers, disguised as simply a breath steaming and billowing from internal furnace, offered as sacrifice to the gathering storm. Easily it is ripped apart by the howling wind, blown back into the unseeing face of the mongrel to form patterns of sorcery and curse across the sleek coat, hoarfrost pale as the silver lines coursing down the spine.
What was this darkness that clasped tightly around the chest as he listened to the unholy drawl of monsters in the night, an outsider and unknown factor by all accounts? Did he sense the doubtful look of the mother queen piercing the darkness, did he taste the silent, unspoken measure proffered by the prince of damnation?

Perhaps the act as he lower the head and turn away from them is a subconscious effort to seem inconspicuous, an act of innocence feigned to invoke trust and avoid learning of compromising information. As tall pillars bring him further away with oil-stained lips dark and treacherous taking to kiss the tainted, soot-mixed snow on the ground, those sharp ears of his stay alert none the less, alert to the slightest hint of clues, of signs and prophecies revealing potential danger or paths to glory. Be it as it may that he is untrustworthy, a force of unknown strength yet to have revealed his full capacity; he is not so stupid as to openly voice thoughts of doubt and loathing, even though the presence of this accursed offspring make his skin crawl with premonition and warning.

In part, it is to distract himself from such treasonous thoughts that he go about exploring the ground, as poisoned and tainted as it may be. Elegant tail draped in silk tresses is held well above the surface of ice and sleet as he slowly meander, the born image of boredom and disinterest. This expression changes however, because not long after this act started do cloven hooves, large and sharp uncover something beneath the surface. A hollow sound is produced as split moons clip a firm structure; it pauses the demon in his steps, intrigue invoked and thoughts set in motion. Carefully he backs up, head lowering to allow heated breath and crimson tongue to uncover the buried something - it is a process most slow and painstaking, but he figures there is time for this as the mother and son surely need time to formulate plans of actions and exchange unholy vows.

Soon enough, lest the wind blow the cold downpour back atop the item, Morir believe himself wise as to the nature of this brittle thing, this hollowed dome upon which he almost tread. The taste of it grow stale upon his tongue as lips explore a shape narrow and elongated, set with branch-like tines extending from a rounded crown to form sharp points that tease soft skin into bleeding crimson tears. A smirk, humorless and grim touch upon the lips of the beast - he has found a skull, the remains of some grazing animal of considerable size deceased some time ago. Perhaps this Orangemoon had seen its life end, or an Orangemoon before that - no flesh appear to linger on the cold bone, only the taste of ice and dark is left to savor.

A thought descends upon the hellion then, an idea most intriguing and amusing. If he is to make bed with demons and their kin, to walk a path of darkness through lands where the dead roam freely... should he not look the part as well?

Grim chuckles are stolen by the wind as he overturn the skull with a deft motion of a hoof. Carefully navigating the sharp diamond of his spears to the brittle artifact he hollow it out with some difficulty, creating room enough for his own roman nose to fit. Once completed the death-named stag brace himself, placing the tips of his own horns against the underside of the bone - and with a hefty thrust he pierce the surface like a hot ember would snow.

Some struggle and adjusting later, the grave-robber sinister and disturbing raise the head and turn back towards his self-proclaimed 'family', ironic grin snug on the lips much like the skull rests snug across his own face. The bone is cold and clammy against the skin, damp and icy still from its exposed resting place, and as he toss the head in quiet humor the weight of antlers is foreign and new on the poll. Yet he feel content as he face the demons once more, like a dark knight pulling down a helmet over his head - protected, as if this ominous piece of bone could distance himself from this rabble and murderous intent.

"You said this place was unsafe" he brusquely remind Confutatis, carelessly cutting into whatever conversation they might have held. "Let's get a move on, my liege before this weather take a turn for the worse."

Only half expecting a reaction to this new toy of his the death-stag bring down the face to tuck the mask firmer in place with a knee extended, suddenly eager to move on. Surely the ghost of this head-piece wouldn't take kindly to his act of desecration, and they would all do best to abscond as fast as physically possible.

Not that he was afraid or anything...