bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
Woolf has never fancied himself a great father.
He knows his limitations, knows where he falls short, and knows where he just cannot be bothered to try. As of this season, he has approximately two children. The first, a son born out of a whim to help a woman reclaim her history. The second, a daughter born out of a mutual interest—a momentary fascination with a woman of winter. He has spent no time with his son (although he has kept track of him in the same way he keeps track of his closest relations). When his daughter was born and it was apparent that neither her mother or him were particularly keen on the idea of raising a child, he had split his shoulder open and sped up the aging process. He had given her the wisdom and the strength and the tools needed to survive.
And then let her live as she will.
All of which is to say that he has not hunted down Ryan but he knows exactly who he is as soon as the stallion crosses his path. For a second, Woolf remains rooted to the same spot that he has been for a while now. His heavy head tilts to the side and he considers the stallion of gold and mulberry, studying the lines of him. It has been a while since he has seen him in person and it is clear that the boy has grown. There is something distinctly feline about him—a throwback to one of Woolf’s ancestors, one of the first to cross the border between life and death and create the need for his existence as an anchor at all.
He considers studying him for a moment longer and then turning to leave, but there is enough curiosity in him today to shake the dust from his coat and make his way toward the stallion.
When he is near enough he stops, his face relatively neutral, wiped clean of emotion.
“Son,” the word feels strange on his tongue. He says nothing else.
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
@[Ryan]
