the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
{drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
She, like many these days, is not what she seems.
He watches her as she slips through the crowds, as Beqanna envelops her, welcoming her back to the fold. He watches as she avoids the majority of souls, as her expressions play across her face. Of course, he does not need her expressions to read her thoughts; he could just as easily dip into her mind and sort that out for himself, should the fancy strike him.
But, for reasons unknown to him, he abstains. Not because he has suddenly been struck with the need to respect privacy (he is above and beyond such things, for he is more of the cosmos then the earth), but because it would more interesting to puzzle it out for himself. Things these days were so often terribly boring. It does him no harm to entertain himself.
And so, he moves forward, the sky splitting open above him and the autumn rain beginning to fall. For a moment, he tips his heavy head back and considers the storm before he brings it back down again, his heavy footfall bringing him closer and closer to the strange mare. Physically, he is impressive. He was an easy 17 hands and broad across the chest, his head heavy and figure imposing. But it wasn’t the strength in his back that made him powerful, made him dangerous. It was what simmered beneath the surface.
“You have picked a strange time to make this open area your home.”
The rain continues to fall, but he himself remains dry, the water diverting itself around him. He tilts his head to consider her, dark green eyes studying her from beneath his forelock, before he shrugs. “Although I have seen stranger things in my time.”
He does not offer his name or say anything more—just watches.
Woolf
