bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
She tucks her head, turns, and runs—and for that, he is pleased.
Woolf practically purrs with pleasure as she lengthens out, her small and clever body weaving in and out of the foliage, using her size as an advantage. Were he a normal wolf, he would perhaps be phased by her cleverness. He would potentially be blocked by the way that she dips in and out of his normal vision, her white body only seen in flashes as she moves through the brush and leaps over the felled trees.
But he is not a normal wolf, and he doesn’t have any qualms about cheating.
Without a thought, he splits open his shoulder once more, the blood matting along his fur, and he traces her path, tracking her as she runs. He doesn’t miss a beat, his body melting through whatever obstacles he meets. When she races underneath the bushes, he simply runs through them, his loping gait never pausing, the obstacles simply fading as his massive form flickers and reforms after he has passed.
It’s only when she laughs that his expression changes at all, curiosity flickering beneath the predatory need to chase. He cannot help his curiosity from piquing at the unnatural reaction, wondering at what would cause the fox-girl to at once run from him and yet laugh into the wind. He could feel her fear on the air, a hungry beast gnawing between them, but he also recognizes a sense of relief.
From him?
The confusions swirling around are muddled and he struggles to pick them apart, struggles to unwind the meaning, and he nearly grows agitated—the more that he picks at them, the more tangled they become. Finally, he opens up a portal and leaps through it, placing himself in a position where she would either stop or, potentially, run straight into him. He doesn’t really care which one occurs.
Stance wide and green eyes glittering, he looks at her.
“Why are you laughing?”
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
