the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
{drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
He has no destination in mind as he makes his way steadily through the forest—he has no thought except the wildness that now pushes up from the earth and into his breast. With each passing moment, he feels himself relinquishing his hold on the realities of his world and turning his face toward the more magical, the more fantastical properties of their encounter. It is if the stag whose form he now possesses was an actual being who inhabited the body as much as he—as if he has but slipped into another identity.
Woolf marvels at the instincts that pulse in his veins.
Sharp green eyes find the doe who runs by his side and then he turns his gaze toward the path that they cut through the twining trees, their hooves finding mulch and pine before springing away. In silence, they run, the only sound the steady huff of his breath and the occasional call, low and throaty and primal.
It is only when the trees give way to the light, watery as it may be, that he slows his pace, his steady legs slowing their tempo upon the ground. The forest around them opens up to reveal a clearing, where water glitters beneath the dying sun and the last rays of the slant through the crowded branches. Whether this was but a private spot he has happened upon or a creation of his own making is unknown, and he does not say either way. Instead he finds her eyes and studies her, wondering if she would be pleased with it.
After snorting and shaking his head, impressive antlers swinging, he walks over to the water and lowers his head, drinking it down until it wets his muzzle and runs down his chin. Then he looks back and stills.
Woolf
