bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
He, too, has spent a considerable amount of time with his head tipped back to the stars.
He has watched how they spin and clash, how they spiral apart and away from one another, opening up entire chasms between them all. He has watched how they breed black holes, swallowing entire galaxies in the blink of an eye. He lived there, once. His sister and him took to the stars with family in wake, drawing upon their connection to one another, to this land, to their ever-increasing family. They had shielded them from the worst of the war, taking the ones they were most concerned about and grabbing a few other souls—but then they had over-extended themselves. So certain of their power, they had reached for the sun and felt it snap beneath their fingers, sending them spinning off into nothingness.
He dreams of it still, the quiet, the blank, the crushing gravity.
Such things press into his chest now, a strange weight he swallows around.
When she does speak, he finds he is surprised that she is capable of it. His heavy head tilts to the side and he considers her with his emerald gaze, his eyes piercing from beneath the mulberry of his forelock. He had not thought she could speak—not at first. He had simply assumed she was carved of the earth and the stars and something decidedly different, something darker and earthier and beyond. It drags a curiosity that always simmering just beneath the surface, causes him to quirk a corner of his somber mouth.
“You already know that I am no gentleman,” he says, a line that may be charming in the right mouth but falls flat from him. He has no ability to charm, no ability to coax a smile from companions in this type of setting. He’s never tried. Never wanted to. “My name is Woolf.” His eyes match the name, predatory and dark and hungry for more, although it’s unclear just what he wants from the encounter.
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
@[Zosma]
