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 fox’s fear permeates the air but it doesn’t bother him.
Such trivial emotions have never really bothered him.
(Perhaps because they have never struck him personally but that doesn’t matter much to him.)
She answers, and even though he can comprehend the words that she’s saying, he cannot quite make the connection between them and the reality that he knows. His face contorts with his confusion, his dark lips pulled downward into something between a mere frown and a deep scowl.
Not thinking about whether or not it could be insensitive or cause her further distress, he throws up an image of a unicorn, molding it into flesh before her very eyes. However, it molds it into the image of his own understanding, shaping it like clay. He makes it white, the eyes blue, a singular twisted horn shooting out the center of its forehead. It’s hooves split and its tail is that of a lion, barely sweeping the floor.
Was she not to watch him make it in front of her, it’d be easy enough to believe that it was real, the only thing missing from the sculpture being life itself. The unicorn remains still, all four cloven hooves pressed into the mulch, and it glows slightly, Woolf brightening their area only enough for her to see it.
“Is this the kind of unicorn you’re running from?” he questions, stepping toward his own creation. He walks around it, considering all angles of the fairly harmless looking creature.
“Why?” the question is quick as a bullet as he turns the heat of his gaze back to her.
“Why would you run from a creature like this?”
He picks up another one of her fears, so heavy between them he feels like he’d be able to discern it even without his gifts. “And why are you so afraid of the sun cresting the forest canopy?”
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
