that moon has a name in the fires of a silver corpse; 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

It’s not long before someone finds him—before his gaudy display of light brings someone to his side.

The smile that splits his face is distinctively wolfish, lacking in the warmth typical of the expression but somehow perfectly fitting the harder edges of his smile. “My name’s Woolf,” he offers it without care. There was power in a name, but he doesn’t mind handing that little piece of power over to her. He doesn’t mind giving her the syllables that wrap around him, that could summon him, if she so wished.

Instead he merely reaches for her own, gripping it loosely.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lepis.”

Of course, pleasure is somewhat of a foreign concept to him. He has never truly found anything pleasurable sans the joy of traveling the cosmos, the joy of taking apart a situation and studying it from all angles, learning everything there was to learn—sucking the marrow out of each moment as best he could.

Still, it’s not quite acceptable to say such things so he offers the hallow pleasantry instead, his heavy face angling away from her briefly to look at the wild land behind her, marked by a diversity unique amongst Beqanna. “So what can you tell me of Loess?” A pause. “Scorch approached me in the field and told me some of it, but I’d like to hear more from a resident.” The least he could do is at least give the bald mare some credit for prompting him to visit here. His face turns wolfish again in amusement. “Although, of course, it does appear that you are not a regular resident here, after all. Queen, is it?”

woolf

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