cold light of the stars the same; any

[woolf]

bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please

Woolf has never paid particular mind to whether or not he is handsome. He does not care that his coat stands out with an unnatural hue. He does not care that he is sculpted as a war horse, his neck thick and arched, his chest wide, his back broad. He has rarely had the need to resort to physical violence. He is not against it, necessarily, but why dirty your hands when he can carve up a man from twelve lengths away?

In similar fashion, he has never paid much mind to the look of others. His eyes don’t follow the curve of a woman’s hip when she passes and he doesn’t hunger for their attention. They are merely bodies—more often in the way than not—and he finds that the one who finds him is no exception. He feels her coming, but he still looks at her with a blank expression, his green eyes just blinking slowly.

“I’m standing in the field,” he answers dryly, his voice tinted with disdain.

For a moment, he furrows his brow and tilts his head, considering her, before his attention is caught by the hairless mare who approaches, the years of her life practically tattooed onto her body. She may feel a tug in her gut at their relations, but his magic draws upon it, and he quickly follows the trial of it, branching out the family tree to find the threads that connect them. His interest is piqued by it, and he dives into her head—at least enough to find her name, find her home, find necessary information.

“Scorch,” he greets her, his smile wolfish as it spreads. “I hope you come with an offer.”

He glances briefly at the other woman, dripping with an offer he doesn’t quite understand, and he decides that he at least needs to hear her out. “I would be willing to hear whatever you have to say, as well.”

Such a gentleman.

woolf

I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste

um hi sorry he is kind of a dick sometimes. :| love you both.