bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
He is never gone far from this place, not truly. He is instead part of it, the breeze that ruffles his mane the same breeze that flutters the edges of his veins, the water that laps around his ankles also seeping under his flesh. It’s a romantic notion for a being who has not a drop of romanticism, instead surveying the land with the cool eyes of a scientist. It is impossible to know him and truly understand him. It is impossible to rectify the magician with the cool, aloof stallion—stained with mulberry and cynicism alike.
Such oddities, however, do not bother him.
He does not spend too much time dwelling on the inconsistencies of his character or the imbalance of his life—his lack of whimsy merely a part of him. Instead, he drifts about their world, leaving no fingerprint to speak of, except a single son with which he monitors with a disinterested eye. He has a twin, somewhere, but her independent streak means that they rarely convene in the same place—despite the fact that they are intrinsically tied together. Again, such oddities for a man who draws considerable power from his connection to his family, their vast and reaching bloodline fueling his ability to warp reality.
Alas, he doesn’t spend too much time dwelling on it.
Instead, he studies, he watches, he learns.
It is this same desire the draws him to a kingdom that holds no ties to him—something else stirring inside of him, drawing him from the shadows and very edges of the lands into the heart of Beqanna.
Perhaps that something is her.
He watches as she lands, her wings collapsing and drawing into her. Out of curiosity more than anything, he slices open his shoulder, the wound old and used to the spilling of blood, and draws from it as it splatters on the forest floor. It allows him to stretch out her story before him, allows him to watch as she takes off from the volcanic island, to feel the desperation and sorrow in her chest. And then, even further. It allows him to see her tending to her father, too weak to rise, the sickness stealing through his veins. Further still, to the happiness of her childhood, and the stark contrast it plays to the darkness now.
He furrows his brow in thought but does not deny his thirst for knowledge.
There is only so much you can learn from watching afar.
He chooses to walk through the dense forest, the mulch muffling the heavy footsteps of his feathered hooves, the stallion not bothering to hide his approach. It’s only when he’s several feet away that he pauses, dipping his head in what’s known as a greeting. “Hello, Marble,” his rich voice rings throughout the forest, Woolf not pausing to consider that it’s odd to know her name before knowing her.
After all, in many ways, he already does.
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
