the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
{drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
Few things of this world interest Woolf, but family is one of them. Of course, familial ties do not interest him in the way that they interest most—he does not grow soft with fondness or nostalgic with memories. Instead, his interest grows a keen edge when he considers his own personal ties to each family member—and, more pointedly, the power untapped in each branching arm of his bloodline. So while he does not necessarily appreciate the intrusion from the golden, magic woman—she bore no relation to him and thus was not useful, at least not currently—he could not deny the desire to sate his curiosity. Vanquish was one piece of the puzzle that composed the mystery surrounding Woolf and Bright.
He had to at least meet him.
After conferring with his twin, he had decided that teleportation was an easier method of travel than by foot, especially considering that they were barely breaching their first year and had never seen the deserts before. Woolf had no desire to spend days traipsing from the foggy plains of the Chamber mountains to the searing sands of the Desert. Instead, he had simply tapped into the collective mind of his bloodline, the same collective power that fed into his and Bright’s magic, and pulled out the dusty memories of the kingdom. It was not perfect, but it was enough, and with a small sacrifice (the pain a pinch, the blood splattering the floor of the Chamber), he had been successful in traveling close enough.
Standing along the edges of a dune, he glanced down at the small group consisting only of his grandfather and his half-aunt, young mouth twisting into a frown. Sending a small warning to Bright, he swung a wide circle around Etro and came up to Vanquish from the other side, coming to a stop several feet away. For a moment, he remained quiet, green eyes too serious for a colt of his age, expression contemplative. When he finally spoke, it was a voice that rung in his throat, echoing in his mouth. “The nightwalker.”
As close to a greeting as he was able. The nightwalker. The rogue. The panther. The diseased. All pieces of the puzzle; all individual components that had called upon the need for the anchors to be created. He shifted his gaze briefly to Etro, frowning again and shifting to the side, uncomfortable with the heaviness in the air she created.
Finally, he looked back to his grandfather and conceded his own name: “Woolf.”
Woolf
