the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
{drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
Her curiosity amuses him, far more than the surly stallion, and so he ignores him, focusing his emerald gaze on the female. “I have magic,” he repeats in his deep voice, the sound echoing in his throat, getting lost in the richness of his tongue. “Of a sort.” His smile curves, just barely, at the sentence, the humor not entirely genuine as it flickers across his handsome face. It was not often that he was on the other side of the questions; he was more likely to be the one asking questions than to be the one receiving them.
Shrugging, he supposes it is an interesting perspective to take.
“My magic is tied to my bloodline. Death diminishes it; life enhances. It’s affected by those who are not related to me, but relations are more potent.” He does not go into the details of why that was. The reason he had ever been sent to this earth alongside Bright. Instead he feeds them tidbits of truth, harmless pieces of information. “Regardless, it is in my best interest to protect those who are related to me.”
His eyes move over to the stallion, meeting his gaze for a moment.
“Sometimes, unfortunately.”
Not that he ever truly wanted to bring harm to the stallion. He is curt and aggressive but Woolf does not rile so easily. The poke is more an experiment of sorts to see how he reacts, to see how the female reacts. Does she calm him or rise to his defense? Does she lunge at the magician? His mind whirls at the possibility, but he remains outwardly unaffected.
“Do you have other questions for me? I imagine you might.”
She seems the type to never run out of them—a trait he would admire were he capable.
Woolf
