the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
{drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
There is darkness in Woolf, but there is also light—a tenuous balance playing an ever-shifting game within him. He is not overly cruel, but he is apathetic to the plight of those around him; they were beneath him and his sister. He watched without interest, studying but never feeling for them. If he needed to draw blood to further his own purpose, he would not hesitate. Blood, after all, was what fed him his power in the first place. He would spill his own, if need be. He had no qualms about doing the same to others.
He does not enjoy the closeness of his grandfather as he nears him, and his muscles tense slightly beneath his coat, his mulberry head lifting toward the giant stallion. Someday, I will have that height, he thinks to himself, although the thought is more scientific than wishful. Height could always be faked if he truly wanted to be physically impressive.
“Indeed,” is all that he responds to the statement of his name. He briefly shifts into the body of the wild dog, larger than the average wolf, his coat bristling with the wind. But the shifting does not last for long, the form bleeding from him, and he merely shrugs at the King. “I am no one’s boy.” Not a kingdom or his mother’s or his father’s who he had never met—certainly not this large, dragon-winged King’s. The only one who could potentially lay claim to him was his sister, and while she had a possessive hold on him, it was different than the worldly desires of most around him.
Her claim was elemental; it was genetic; it was infinite.
(He did not mind this claim—he had the same on her.)
Finally, Woolf has enough of the nearness, and he teleports several feet away, his young face not breaking from its somber nature. Vanquish, however, does not stay with him long, and Woolf is grateful that the other is shifting toward the others who gather—more ties to his family, although their ties dissolve with distance in many cases. When Vanquish finally answers both unspoken and loud demands, Woolf cracks a smile—the result eerily removed from his face. “Thank you, Vanquish, but I desire nothing.”
Not from you. Not yet.
Woolf
