the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
{drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
Woolf would be a fool to not realize how physically intimidating he could be; he would be a fool to not realize that he could strike fear into the hearts of those around him simply by swinging his massive head and focusing on them with his striking emerald gaze. He knew, but it was an auxiliary fact—one that he did not pay much heed to. There was more power simmering beneath the surface than coiled in his muscled shoulders, or at least there used to be. Now, he was not much more dangerous than the damage he could inflict with a strike of his hoof or impact of his weight. Which was why he had approached at all.
He is quiet as she speaks, weighing the situation carefully, calculating it meticulously. His expression remained unchanged at her offering; in fact, he did not move until the older gray mare approached the group. She was drained dry, just like him, but he could practically smell the metallic tang of where magic had once been. She was powerful, once. She had controlled the world around her as easily as some had breathed. It was difficult to rid oneself of the the echo of ancient magic like that, and he was intrigued.
As to her question though, he mostly ignored it as it was not directed at him. Instead he glanced back to the mare in question, his emerald eyes peering out at her from beneath the tangled mass of his mulberry forelock. “I am not accustomed to striking a bargain when I am being led into it blindfolded,” his voice rumbled from his chest and he held her gaze. “But I have no interest in pretending. My magic is worth a great deal to me.” Of course it was. It was the only tool he had to protect Bright, his family, himself.
He tilted his head for a moment, weighing his options.
“I have knowledge of the cosmos. I am willing to share.”
Within reason. Always within reason.
Woolf
