Species: Fenhound; A beast only found on the Demiplane of Dread; Hunts down evildoers around its domain.
Gender: Male

Aura: Chaotic Good, Smiting
Physical Aura: Yellow moonlight

Name: The concept of the event when the last rays of sunlight touch the sky just before dakrness falls

Biography:
Yet another evil doer breaths its last in the tiny patch of swampy ground, last surviving piece beneath one of the ancient moor in the lands of the mist. The large hound looks at the deep grooves that cut across the land that used to be murky mire, yet now taken over by agriculture like a pestilence covered now with blooming  crops, fed by the centuries of blood that have nourished the soil, in neat rows.

Waiting in the moonlight for the hunt like every month for evil doers to dare step near his domain, even with how tiny and dissipating it has become recently, the hound comes about a sense of the mark. A kin has fallen, justice obstructed, the hunt spreads! Howling to the moon before dashing forth, the hound glides down the misty slope and overruns the crops beneath its paws. Running through the night for as the full moon slowly moves through the night sky, a small hamlet comes in sight yet the mark pulls the hound further past to the castle overlooking it.

Its claws rattle over the cobblestone paved street to the lord's inner domain. Running past the shut doors and windows of houses reeking with fear, which intensifies as it stops by the drawbridge and bays loudly. Yet surprisingly the mark feels none of the fear it should, yet the scent of living flesh and metal armor it combines to the mark is certain this is a man and no monster it hunts. It matters not to the hound as it continues on, there is vengeance to pay for.

Running through rooms, the stench of spilled blood with sound of steel and explosions guiding it deeper to the depths of the castle into the crypts in the heart of it all. The cheers and jubilation of man-things that stand upon the ash of vampires are cut short as the hound pounces upon the marked one. A tall man-thing in gilded armor, rolling together now on the scorched still smoldering floor as the hound sinks its teeth. The mark seemingly accepting its judgement as it simply embraces the hound firmly in its gauntleted grip. Shining in the light of the dawn the mark heals its bleeding throat as the hound ravages it time and time again.

Until finally the mark fades with the man-thing's death and the hound rejoins the mists. Yet there is no pull to its moor, no anchor for its domain to oversee. The world too bright, colors it never saw before filling its world in the mist that holds its presence. The ever-present aura of evil gone as the hound is able to take form even without the power of the full moon.