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

“You have nothing to fear of me,” he answers her unspoken fears, quashed as they are, his scarred shoulder rolling in a casual dismal. “I am not like the wolves of your past.” He doesn’t dwell not them long, doesn’t even think anything of casually referencing a piece of her history as if he had lived there with her—as if she had already relinquished the information to him. And, of course, she could have something to fear of him, should he ever choose to be something deserving of fear.

But not now.

He has no need to be feared now.

His lips nearly purse at her next admission, thinking on the ways she has been tied to the stallion for so long but he doesn’t comment on it, letting that slide by unacknowledged. “Queen Lepis then,” his smile remains wolfish and if you didn’t know him, you may even think the quirk of lips was humor.

“I don’t have much experience within kingdoms or herds or whatever it is that the group is being called nowadays,” he admits, although there’s no real shame in the admission. “I simply want to know more about it so that I can properly weigh my options.” Casually, he dips his fingers into the inky blood that stains his mulberry shoulder, the ground beneath their feet blossoming with flowers by the prompting his magic. It grew thick and lush, crawling up his legs ever so slightly before bending away. He doesn’t look.

“I’m curious to know how I could be of use to a place such as this.”

woolf

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