bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
The two mares before him could not be more different in looks or nature.
One vacillated between sickly sweet and steely anger, attempting to manipulate the threads of the conversation in a way that he could clearly see but not fully comprehend. What good did she expect to come of this? What did she hope to gain from it? He furrowed his brow in thought, staring intently at her, studying her face as if he could puzzle it out. At her offer, he just frowned further, the scowl deepening on his stern features. “That sounds more like you’re expecting an offer from me.” His voice rumbled in his throat, and he tilted his head to the side, heavy mane falling away. “I don’t think I have one to give.”
Her challenge though made him bark out a laugh, the sound as sudden as a bullet.
“I don’t see one,” he shrugged, failing to take the bait.
The bald one caught his attention once more and he shifted to look at her once more, ears flicking forward in the tangled thicket of his mane to consider her. The offer was plain and yet fairly empty, and he found himself mulling it over, not responding quickly but letting the words sink into the air between them.
It was then that he noticed the way she wove light around her, the delicate strands of it wrapping around her legs and upward. It was enough to pique his interest once more, and he drew upon their distant connection to pull on his own magic. The ground next to him began to growl ever so slightly, the dirt and the mulch crumbling and spilling outward. From deep within the ground, something began to grow, and one corner of his mouth quirked in amusement as a spear of light, as thick as a sapling, pierced the soil and shot into the air. It arched upward, the light blinding, and then fell back down as soft as drizzle, splattering the dirt with a mixture of the dusk that Scorch has so masterfully wove but moments before.
In the aftermath, the dirt took on a starry hue, constellations trapped and fading.
Woolf said nothing of the show, not even bothering to glance toward it, but pleased with the way his magic had risen from their familial connection, matching hers in his own way. “I suppose I would like to hear where you think I would be better suited.” An understated shrug. “I would not come empty handed.”
Remembering himself, he looks toward the color-changing mare, his gaze level.
“Perhaps you have questions, as well?”
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
