the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
{drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
Beqanna had quieted which, in theory, Woolf did not mind.
In practice though, it was dull. The time after the Reckoning had been fresh with confusion and fear and chaos. He was not malevolent in that he hungered for such emotions, but it had been the first time that he had been able to study them so easily. He couldn’t help but be fascinated by the ways everyone had reacted to the bleeding out of magic, the way some had seen it as nothing but a challenge to be overcome while others had mewled and broken, letting the waves of change break over their very backs.
He had not been overly pleased by the situation, the stallion feeling altogether hollowed out and empty in the aftermath, but he had taken it as a time to study—to learn. He had stayed mostly within the confines of the forest to watch others there, taking what tidbits of information he could glean from the interaction and tucking it away in his chest for safekeeping. Thankfully, he had not stayed that way for long. Eventually, he had his magic restored and all had been right with the world. Now, he only needed to restore Bright.
It was this thought that accompanied him today, his mood not cheery but not particularly sour as he walked through the pathways of the forest, his emerald green eyes peering out and studying the various creatures who walked by. It wasn’t until he saw her that he paused, his head tilting in her direction, his mouth flattening with curiosity. She was…different. And not just different in form. He had seen plenty of creatures who looked more abnormal than she, but what stirred in her heart was altogether odd.
Interest piqued, he pulled upon his magic and then dissolved within himself, his form imploding inward and then exploding outward into something uniquely new. It was the first time that he had taken the form of a stag (he much preferred the form of predators to prey) and while he wasn’t a fan, he assumed that he could do worse. He reached down to let his antlers scratch against his elegant, slender leg before he looked up, making his way toward the mare. One singular drop of blood curled down his shoulder in response to the shift, but Woolf didn’t pay it any mind. It was minor magic. A minor price to pay.
When he was near her, he lifted his regal head and let loose a throaty call for Fur.
Let her recognize its origins. Let her come.
Woolf
@[fur]
