Phantom Hollow There can be only Two (For my little Chicken Pox <3)

Slade found tonight to be oddly calm, and that in itself was a signal of trouble brewing. He couldn't exactly place a claw on it, but it was a differnt form of trouble, precisely one he did not craft, which irritated him slightly. The majestic vile being stalked the shadows, seeking guidance, seeking anything that would allow him pleasure of ridding the Hallows of undesired...intention...hymns...shameless.
His vision flickered for a second as he took on a headache, and with a brutal growl, the man winced as it forced gritted teeth and something rage-tempting from him.

Soon, the migraine ravaged through his brain until a cry was heard. It was feeble, pathetic, young. It's vocals bled Slade, as this was no prey being slaughtered. The noted within the pained whelp were those of a wolf. The migraine stopped just as sudden as it had arrived as his bulky crown swiveled, turning to the source of that useless...mercy...

It was noxious how far he was, the sound relocation of the hollows forcing him to retract his trail and start anew, but soon the bitter swell of blood's caress frolicked within his airways, and following it's lull he found himself in a clearing. Blood...blood was everywhere. Every...where..
With corpses littering the ground, the scene played out before his ensnaring gaze, the vehemence ruling his mind. Slaughter, unbridled and ruthless, a pack who was not prepared for such surpise. The face of agony, another of suprise, some of rebellion, and shock were still molded onto the many faces he cast a glance to.
Even pups were scattered about the camp, their tiny bodies broken, lifeless...useless...

Slade sniffed about, his snout shoving smells into his brain, piecing together somethings that simply did not add up. A piece was missing from this masterpiece, a single piece.
Piss soaked the ground, drying and the Shadow Sire analyzed it, his nares keeping the scent and wolves who made it, memorized in a cemented block of memory. He would have to see exactly what pack planned and executed this attack and to congradulate them in their flawless-

Just as the word left his mind's lips, the sound of something dragging along sanded ground snapped his ears directly, his front soon following suit. Just as he thought they were perfect.
Following the sound, Slade couldn't help but notice the obious trail of blood that tinged an obvious path, and after such a small slew of seconds, the trail ended. A small thing lay draped across the fringes of grass, the blood and scents of urine splattered acros this wolf like a living crime scene. This was he, the Missing Piece. The Vengeful Shade who would bring death to those who had culled the last breaths of his family. Though it was probably not embalmed in the youth's head, Slade would make it so.
This wolf would be what Cry failed to be.
A Nightmare's Child.

It was a blessing Slade had believed the glacial eyed male to be worthy of, but oh was he wrong. Cry had not suffered as this prodigy had. Cry had escaped Death's hand, evading the etheral touch of the Void insatiably, almost as though he wanted to feel demise, yet the Sire of Shadows knew better. This child was a ShadowBorn, cloaked in the same abyssmal shade Slade wore regally, and as Slade had yet to see the hue of the pup's eyes, he knew instinctively how intimidating he could craft those gems to be. They would be unyeilding in their slaughter, and the last sight many would see before their own final breaths would be those lovely pretties.
Slade would make it so.

The Wicked Messiah pulled his lips back, revealing pearls, glistening and sharp as they reflected dangerously in the spy of the moonlight, and he knelt a head to the small body, maw opening wider. Yet as the rumored poisonous bite took hold of the youth's scruff, he did not shred, rip, or taint the hide of this whelp. No, he lifted his crown, the motionless pup dangling from those daggers, gentle, and instead salvation was delivered that night.

Off he whisked the pup, back into the unbiased grace of the Night. Back to his den, where he would weld this piece back together, back to fit into another portrait fit for a King.