somewhere between love and abuse; any

[Ashley]

Ashley could definitely identify with Woolf. He too had felt his blood weakening—almost as if it were thinning with the draining of the magic that had taken place throughout this land. He had come from the beach, awoken from his stoney cavern in quite the mood, and his first reaction was to go to the meadow to figure out what the fuck had happened to him, and to the land that he had died for.
 
Died for more than once, if the truth were to be told in full—but we do not have that kind of time.
 
Upon the boredom of being able to find himself in lands familiar, with the scent of his family staining the place—for he had no wishes to run into his mother—he headed instead for the place he was not familiar with. This was a forest that had never been here before, but under the cover of the trees, the smell seemed like something he had come across in his youth. Puzzled at the genesis of this flashing flood of memories, he straightened, feeling that he was not alone in his reverie. It did not take a magician to be aware of one’s surroundings, and the sheer wisdom of age and immortality that beat in his blood caused the muscles in his back and thighs to tense. He slapped his tail against his side, quietly expecting an attack at any moment to strike out—from who knows where.

ashley

A sleepless night becomes bitter oblivion