A blast of frigid air caresses his dome, billowing wafts of scalding breath from his claret bathed nostrils rising as a cyclone into the heart of the tempest above— the dryad's sway, protesting against the mighty force of the cold, of the wind, and for the briefest of moments he stills.

The wind is at his croup, the hefty odor of pungent metal and salt lost upon his delicate sensory systems, but a wolf is a wolf and perhaps he can sense the trembling earth beneath him, the crunch of leaves and fragile wood, or maybe he can sense the bonds tied in bloodied rags. Perhaps it is the way the coppice sways to and fro and creates illusions of beasts in his mind. The rodent chatters once more, agitated and meek, bushy and russet tail lashing.
  His harks raise, pricking forwards at a angle, snowflakes catching on frosted lashes, cardinal depths aimed into the midst of the forest, his tail whips against his hind with expectation for whatever beasts may emerge from the gloom (If he must do battle, if death seeks fresh faces on this eve, then he shall end meager lives with glee).

She comes with a explosion of ice and snow.
It spatters upon his sweltering sinew, melting into a icy sludge and dripping down his sides, the rodent scurrying away in the midst of the chaos and alabaster spray, and before the daemon in that instance stands the ominous ship of his mother's make and kind— skull-faced dome and acerbic spittle, the saccharine scent of cruor and eradication reeking from her hide and tainting the pristine air with her aphotic presence. It is His name that spills from jagged lips in raucous precision and transparencies, it is His name that is sang into the arctic and mundane realm in which they existed, and the daemon Prince struggles with his aspirations and fascination (for a succubus is taught from birth wrath, enmity, desolation); but should he not be exalted in her presence? Should he not be festive in his jubilance, should he not cherish her as his mother? Yet the Prince does not understand such mortal emotions, does not lay among the lamb's when he is the red blooded predator of their species— and as such, it is found that only mutual revere spreads from his frame, from the sparkle of recognition amidst cardinal stone, the softening of a callous voice into that of a silvery waltz.
"Mother."

There is a fox that gnarls at her hooves, and the attention of his eyes lazily twist across its minuscule frame. Fuliginous with a splash of ice upon its bosom, paws stained a ruddy umber and glistening sanguine— or is it aureate? — depths, dual tails twirling behind him (what a curious species, he wonders, and how many others exist in this diseased estate?).
His eyes snap up once more as another is brought forwards, behind his dam, a beast of height and claimed in twilight, argent lace trailing from his spine and neck, three horns jutting from his brow and a leonine tail draped in obsidian tresses, but the most intriguing thing about the stranger to mention is that he has no eyes (unless the crowned creatures here normally dance to their foes with their lids closed, half-asleep and blind as babes). But his observation of the crowned beast is one of scientific exploration, in what ways may he serve him? In what ways may he succeed? A eyeless fool could not serve him well on the battlefield, could he? Was he possessed in some hellish magic, able to view from the sightless? Dogs that could no longer prove a purpose in the field were laid to rest, were they not?

And yet his mother croons to him once more— his audits swiveling towards her, at attention, and yet divided between the suspicious viewing of this unicorn and his dam's song. She tells him that the crowned stallion is a comrade, a ally, and yet he wonders as to her ideals when she sought this being out, when she gathered him as her follower and drenched him in dominance. She asks of him to mind his tongue (as if the silver-tongued God would do anything else), and he hums a dry greeting in response to the demand. Of course (have I ever done anything else?). There is a exhale, a breath released from her frame (he brings his full attention to her once more), and then she steps towards him, clammy flesh curling around his neck in a benign greeting (the commoners in his homeland had feared her, her acidic slaver and domination to rule, they had feared her and he had been filled with confusion, for despite her harshness, her brutal teachings, she had always been Mother to him).

  Morir as she deemed him speaks of a question, a observation, and he would curl his maw into a heinous smile if he were less trained in the ways of diplomacy (it is no matter, he shall show the daft creature whom reigns supreme in this metaphorical battle soon enough). Perhaps the boy was deaf, too? It is then that he pulls from his dam's embrace, a twinkling flame among cardinal pearls, darting to the lad and his mother alike. What rank did he have in this kingdom of fools? Was he expected to treat him as a equal, as a brother, or as a bumbling commoner without the right of speech?
"Ah, yes. Lady Death so happens to be my dam, Morir. I am known as Veil, albeit I am certain you are aware of this by now." He settles on his dam once more. "I have searched long and hard for you, mother. It's good to see you once more. Tell me, for I have seen the darkness on the horizon, what haunts this.. diseased grovel?"