Our bones ache only while the flesh is on them

[Gale]

i hear the wicked get no rest, but when you do ---------- i hope you dream of me Sintra shimmers, her image blurred by the heat that rises from the lava flow just behind her. At the top of the ridge, Gale rests his head on his blue paws, content to digest the emotions he’s already taken from her while he waits patiently for a more corporeal finish to his meal. He is not sure what she is doing down there, only that it isn’t dangerous to him. Her vision is blurred, and her thoughts fuzzy and indistinct, as if she’d cracked her head a bit too hard on the porous stone. He smooths the white fur of his forelegs with a still-bloody tongue, and considers flopping to his side and rolling in the leaf litter, as the wolf he wears might in such a situation, waiting for something to happen. But the cursed creature is not as satisfied by a full belly as a true wolf; he wants more. The mare on the ground below begins to move, and Gale rises to his feet in one smooth motion. She is slow and clumsy, and he bares his sharp teeth in a smile. Her thoughts are no less a muddle, and rather than tire himself sorting through them, he focuses instead on the way that fear is woven thickly in the words of her feeble request. “I can help you,” is an offer far less bloody than the lips it passes through. The words are soft despite his sharp teeth, but his grin is no less manic as he peers down at her from the ledge. I can help you, he says, though he's no intention at all of doing so. GALE