BLACK IS THE DEVIL, DARK IS THE NIGHT — JOINING

[APOLAKI M.]

Ardent, huh? Apolaki doesn't know much about the language, but the taste of pride on the fox's tongue when he said the words are indication enough that he considers himself to be the leader of the small, ragtag group of heathens. The smile that unfurls on the dhole's muzzle glints with wicked amusement—yes, perhaps this will do well enough for his temporary stay on the mortal realm. After all, his homeland won't last long without its leader. Bathala will see his safe return soon enough.

"Mabuhay, Jervis and company," the god begins with a flutter of one golden wing, bringing the massive appendage to his front and bowing over it; he is well-mannered, unlike his disappointment of a sister. Their pelts don't carry her scent, so he can only assume that she must not be in their presence, but he thinks it might help him more to have their kind to be on his side. Mayari is too clever, too sly—she would likely amass an army of filthy fiends like herself, and Apolaki simply can't stand by and let her gain the upper hand.

No. If Mayari thinks she can swipe the throne from underneath his nose, she'll have another thing coming.

"Ah, yes, of course; my purpose is to join your angkan, of course," the dhole responds with a nod of his head, a chuckle dangling on his breath. His molten gaze flicks from one strange Pittian another, memorizing every nook and cranny of their facial features and storing them somewhere in the back of his mind; they're certainly quiet, but Apolaki can make do with that. Let them glare. They'll know their place soon enough. "My name is Apolaki Madrigal. Polly, if you prefer. I am very pleased to meet you."