that moon has a name in the fires of a silver corpse; any

[woolf]

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 understands the humor in Wolfbane’s joke but his face remains relatively passive, his features as neutral and difficult to read as the striped stallion’s own. “If you have no need of them...” his voice trails off and the plants shrivel by his side, curling inward into themselves, drawing their own poison in. The ground bubbles slightly as it spreads outward, the grass and foliage beneath each of them turned charred as he kills it off.

Soon, there is nothing of the lush vegetation.

Nothing of the garden that has sprouted around him.

Just the black scar where it had once been.

Again, Woolf doesn’t bother to look at it. It is petty, foolish magic and not worth much attention. Not worth anything more than the few drops of blood that he has to spill to even perform it.

“I am capable of much more than that,” he says coolly. He had been born into magic, molded from it. He was not someone who had slipped it on like a coat later in life. It was an intrinsic part of who he is, the very fabric of his being. He flares his nostrils, drinking in the air. His eyes turn white, fogged over and misted as the blood begins to flow more freely down his stained shoulder.

He pulls away the land around them, replacing it with the vision of his own design. He shows them, as long as they do not fight it, the world as it could be. He shows alien fire being lit on the borders of the kingdom, consuming everything in its path. He shows them craters opening up, drinking the blood of those nearby. He shows stats falling hard and fast, scarring the land with wherever it hit. He shows them creatures of mud and bone crawling out from the earth and forming armies. He shows them power.

The vision fades, and soon it is just the three of them standing there, the world once again mundane and quiet.

“Such magic requires sacrifice,” an obvious statement. His magic is tethered. It is anchored. “But we can find that easily enough.”

woolf

I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste

@[Lepis] @[Wolfbane]

I can edit if you don’t want them to have the vision!

Or you can just say they resisted it. He wouldn’t force it.

<3