the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
{drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
They are family.
His magic sparks in his chest as they near him, and he lifts his large head to peer out toward them, the green of his eyes glinting beneath the muddled mulberry of his mane. They are not direct offshoots, but they are connected, the familial branches within him rising in recognition of their connection. He snorts a little in response to it, tilting his head and chewing on the inside of his cheek in thought.
Perhaps they recognized him as easily as he recognized them, but he doubted it. As his magic reached out and wrapped its cold, calculating fingers around them, it did not recognize any spark of it within them. It did not see anything similar to what burned in him and Bright; they were simply drawn to him.
Odd.
So drawn up in his own interpersonal thoughts, he did not realize right away that they had started talking. He shook his head and then focused his flat gaze on them—not quite apathetic, but not overly warm either. “Yes, Dagny and Olivier.” His lips flatted in thought, picking through the many threads that sprout off from them. “Daughter and son of…Brennen and Cy.” They were just names, but he still held them close to him. Not because he was particularly affectionate of them, but because his abilities were tied to them. Cy was already gone—and at the hand of another relative, pity—but Bremen was around.
“That would make you my great aunt and uncle, I suppose.”
It felt strange to call them that; while he was acutely aware of his connections to the family around him, he also felt ancient, timeless. To think these young horses before him were his great anything was odd.
“You’re wrong through,” he leveled his gaze on the stallion, eyes narrowing in thought. For a moment, a singular horn grew from the stallion’s forehead, the weight of it tangible. It buzzed in and out of existence as Woolf studied them and then he shook his head, the horn dissolving from existence as easily as he had conjured it. “One of the many missing something from themselves, I suppose.”
His attention drew back to the mare and her lingering question.
“Oh. Woolf. My name is Woolf.”
Woolf
