the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
{drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
Woolf rarely felt emotions of any strength—stripped clean of them, living a life of isolation and detached curiosity. That was, until, he had been ricocheted back from the afterlife and onto the craggy slopes of the Mountains. That was, until, he had made his way down her harsh, demanding slopes to be rewarded with the bleeding out of his magics, the gifts leaving him empty and powerless in a land he did not recognize.
What had followed was not indignation or tantrums or fury.
But what had followed was confusion (Why am I punished for sins that are not my own?) and irritation (Why was I brought back to a world that I can no longer affect?) and, ultimately, frustration (What do I do now?). Such emotions had poured into and through him, and Woolf had eventually stepped back, curious of his own response to the scenario.
The following days were spent mostly in self-reflection; he to the meadow and then sequestered himself off from the crows milling about so study, and to think, and to discern. When his journey had eventually turned up fruitless, he had set it aside with careful intentionality. There was nothing for him to do now but to turn back toward the world as a mortal and to trust the devices left in him to sort out the rest.
It was then that he saw her, spotted and alone. He was looking at her as she looked toward him and although nothing stirred in his breast, he felt a tenuous bond. Enough of one that he uprooted himself from his spot and made his way toward her, moving through the other horses carefully so as to not touch them. When he reached her, he found himself yearning to throw out the rope of his magic, to dig through her mind (open and ripe, like untouched fruit—he could feel it) and understand. He bit back the annoyance at whatever powers Beqanna had called forth to cleave his own ability cleanly from him. For a moment, he thought of speaking, but having nothing to say, he remained silent, instead standing too closely, breathing in her scent, brazenly studying her for whatever there was to learn.
Woolf
