Honeyed Pasture villain

Unlike his poor half-sibling, the reaper knew exactly who and what he was: a starborn soldier, a killing machine, the whispered curses tempted from a frozen breath, the monster under the bed. He'd been raised with the devils, bred from the shadows, and he held himself with the coldest of demeanors - a gaze of pure ice adorned the scarred features, and it would be a challenge to meet his solemn eyes. 

He knew someone was following him. He didn't stop them.

The voice was unfamiliar, but so were many - the Svartell cared not to memorize them all, so when at last he turned to greet the unknown traveller, he did not bother with an introduction; he wouldn't have spoken his name even if this man had. A quick assessment told the demon all he required to know: at least two years of age, male, wiry build. Vivid blue eyes.

Dakarai's eyes, almost.

"It was making a fool of itself," came the gruff response in reference to the coyote, voice as deep as the wind's groans, a smoky, solemn tone taking grip of his tongue. What oddities he came upon; who was this man, speaking of killing? He was talking to death itself. But... oh, he'd entertain him for a while, perhaps, hints of a smirk threatening to tug at his lips. "Depends on my mood."