the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
{drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
She came, as he had known that she would.
There was never any option except for her obedience, except for her bending to his will, like a sapling before a storm. Thankfully, for her sake at least, he had no nefarious motives. He never did particularly enjoy the sound of screams and death, at least of those related to him, brought harm. He much preferred the life that burst forth, the power it brought him, the surge beneath his skin. That he enjoyed.
Still, he appreciates that events unfold as he had hoped they would, and his green eyes, peering out from the handsome face of the stag are appreciative as they study her. That had been his real purpose; it was always his purpose. To learn. To gather information like weapons. So many made the mistake of thinking that to gain power in this world, one must have strength so that they may shed blood. But Woolf knew better. He knew that the real power lay in knowledge. The powerful simply knew how to wield it.
Feeling generous, he lets loose the magic from his chest with a soft cry toward her, the ropes of it visible as it extended toward her, glowing brightly as they wrapped around her and then sunk into her, dissolving against her flesh. And then, the same slight of hand that had turned his body into that of a stag, reached into her and gave her back the form of a doe, if only temporarily. The cut on his shoulder deepened, the blood spilling over, but he barely noticed it, long used to the price he paid for the magic he performed.
Taking a step back, he admired his handiwork, looking at the form he had created, the gift he had given her. And then his eyes moved upward, finding her gaze and holding it, curious for her reaction.
Woolf
