the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
[ drunk and driven by a devil's hunger ]
Woolf is many things, and while it could be argued that he was unfeeling, he did not take undue pleasure in her fear, in her misery. Still, he did not work overly hard at easing her pain—not immediately, at least. There was too much to learn, too much to study, too many things for him to discern for him to simply leave her be. Instead, his sharp emerald eyes study her face, knowing without seeing what the other side of it looked like, but not yet knowing the cause of the distortion. He could, of course, simply reach into her mind and pull out the information, but it was more interesting to earn it the hard way.
His mouth quirks at her lie, and he just shrugs. “Of course you do.”
Still, he gives a small kindness and shifts again, one more time, returning to the form of his birth, that large mulberry stallion with the heavy head and the serious eyes. He is still fantastic in color, but he is real in shape. “Why would you try and pretend that you don’t dream when it is so obvious that you do?”
There are so many questions sitting unanswered on the end of his tongue, so many things that he wants to pull from her—stories, data, information. So many ways for him to learn from her, to piece together that which cleaved her face in two, that which brings tears to her eyes when she observes a monster with changing shape and color. But, for now, he withholds them, knowing that to overwhelm her was to not get any answers at all. So he remained still, quiet with the snow drifting down and dusting his haunches.
“My name is Woolf,” he finally offers, and then nothing else.
