bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
She is a small, terrified thing—constantly perched like a bird ready to take flight. There is something about her that is wound too tightly, the world too loud and bright and fast. His shoulder bleeds freely as he watches her, fascinated in spite of himself, drawing upon his own blood to feed him the small power that he needs to take what he needs from her mind. He is delicate with it, unmistakable for the average mind, slipping in and out of the currents of her thoughts, feeding on the fear and the courage alike.
She moves past him and he takes a step back, giving her the space to make her pointed exit.
Still, his smile grows wolfish on his face, enjoying the flaunted display of bravery.
At her question, he rolls his massive shoulders, the muscles underneath roping and twisting, a powerful display of strength although he rarely calls upon the physical. “Perhaps, I am here for you,” is all he answers, wondering if the answer will give her pause or if it will cause the edges of her pulse to begin to flutter and tatter, wondering if she will unravel at the merest amount of pressure or simply condense into a diamond. “Would that be so surprising, Marble? That I traveled all this way for you?”
He wonders at the way the world screams at her. Wonders at the way the barest of sounds is amplified in her delicate ears—the way that she bears the weight despite the pain of it. The blood begins to flow again as he draws upon it and he begins to absorb the sound around from them. First, he draws in the sounds closes to him—the sound of his breathing, the sound of his own heartbeat, the sound of the leaves beneath his hooves. Then, he expands. He draws in the breeze and the faint rustling of animal life and the murmur of the water. Then, he focuses on the scents, the light—the world around them growing dim and muffled.
And finally, silence.
His green eyes glitter as he watches her, the two of them suspended in nothingness, although the world around them remains remarkably the same. Blood rolls down the mulberry of his coat and splashes onto his hooves, but he doesn’t notice. He doesn’t notice anything but the silence stretched between them.
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
