bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
He doesn’t have much time. He knows that much.
He knows that sooner rather than later he will need to return and tend to his own affairs. This knowledge makes him short-tempered and grumpy, more impatient than usual. When the dragon stallion arrives to the group, he swings his heavy head toward him, green eyes glittering, mouth pressed thin. “What an observant thing you are, Uncle.” He watches him, unimpressed before huffing, his air blooming in front of him. “Woolf.” His name is a staccato thing, a bullet leaving his lips, and he doesn’t bother to elaborate.
Instead he dismisses him mentally and turns his attention back toward Heartfire, mulling over her words. He was weak. He knew that. Beneath the brave front, he was weakened by what happened to Bright, to what happened to their family. To have access to her free pass, whenever he needed it. It was intriguing. His eyes go hard and he shrugs. “It will have to be on my own terms. I will not always be this punctual.”
He would not come to heel simply because she whistled.
Even if she offered an intriguing carrot.
The child erupts forward and he watches with a frown, his face pinched with a frown. She was speaking nonsense, rattling on and on about the kingdoms of old, and he tilts his head to the side as he considers her. When she finally collapses, he quirks a brow and then glances up at the blue mare. “I suppose you want me to start with this one.” He has no warm paternal feelings, no desire to heal her of the sickness that even now crawls through her veins. “I can do it, but I need you to uphold your end of the bargain first.” If he could heal himself and Bright through Heartfire first, he could be bothered to heal the child.
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
