the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
{drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
He heard her words before he saw her, and his heavy head lifted quickly.
Restore your magic.
His face remained impassive, but his dark green eyes burned as they swept through the surrounding areas, looking for the source of the sound. When he saw her, he almost smiled. She was young, brightly colored and defiant. He could see it in her eyes, in the way she tipped her chin. There was something in her that sought bloodshed, something that ached for a good fight. He wondered at the life a child that age must have lived to already yearn to break bones, to dream of bloodshed, to be thirsty for the sound of war.
Intrigued, by more than just the dangling carrot of power restored, he made his way over. He himself did not think of battle often, but he certainly was built for it. He took after his father, a powerful mixture of Warlander and Percheron; his body was thickly muscled and he stood at an impressive 17 hands. Woolf, however, did not care for grappling physically much. He supposed that he could, and he would likely do well, but his methods had always been…cleaner, slightly removed. It was easy to accomplish that when you still had magic coursing through your veins. Without it, things became a little messier. Shame.
Which brought him to this current predicament.
“You speak of magic and prices and knowledge,” he said when he finally approached, his gaze neutral, his voice deep. “Those are weighty words for one so young.” Although not overly self-centered, Woolf was single-track minded and it took a great deal of effort for him to swing his head toward the other mare who was part of the group. “Hello,” he greeted, before turning back to the small mare, his gaze trained on her.
“My name is Woolf.”
Woolf
