cold light of the stars the same; 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

 
Perhaps it is boredom that drives him to this land.

Perhaps it is a scientific curiosity—a desire to learn more about the workings of those he surrounded himself with. He had been born into a kingdom but never understood that loyalty that ties a soul to a piece of land, that straps down a mind to it and forces it to bend to another’s will. He had watched full-grown stallions become nothing more than dogs to those they deemed their better; he had watched them cow before the will of another, taking their burden upon their shoulders as if they had no other option.

Such things hold no interest to Woolf. 

He has no desire to become an order taker for another—to carry out commands mindlessly. 

But, even he cannot deny that boredom has begun to still his blood, making him lethargic and dull. He has watched the time-lapse of the meadow over the last few weeks—horses coming and going and leaving no real imprint. His emerald eyes have glazed over and his pulse slowed so that he nearly atrophied.

So perhaps it is not surprising that he finally shook the dust from his coat and began to make his way toward to land of faux opportunity. His heart was not yet sold on the idea of a home, but he could not longer deny the curiosity at what offers would arise from the venture. His behemoth body was made for war but the promise of Woolf was not in the physical strength but that rare magic that simmered in him.

For a land clever enough, he could be an interesting asset. 

At least for as long as they could hold his attention.

When he finally reaches the field, he does not make his way toward the center of it. He, instead, sticks near the edges of it, his eyes narrowed and thoughtful. Mindlessly, Woolf slices open his shoulder, the blood welling to the familiar wound and dripping onto the ground, and he pulls a small gathering of trees together—forcing the trees to grow thicker and bending their branches together to provide protection.

And then, he waits.

woolf

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

honestly, idk. probably not tephra? but anywhere else.