the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
{drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
“Maybe you do not want to be left alone,” is all that Woolf answers with at first, tilting his young head to the side, watching the pale stallion with a renewed interest. It was beyond him why anyone would want to avoid magic in their lives—why they would actively seek to hide from it. Magic, to him, was everything; it was what bubbled in his veins and flooded his mouth and tied him to the universe with its many threads. He could not understand a life where magic was anything but it all, where life meant anything without it.
As the wind dies down, the violent gusts becoming nothing more than quiet breezes, he continues to watch the other stallion, tempted to root through his memories some more, but refraining from now. Woolf was not intentionally cruel—he just could not fathom most everyone around him. They were foreign to him, alien in their emotions. He just couldn’t comprehend their fears and desires and thus often acted in ways contradictory to them.
When he discovered that was the case, he didn’t feel any guilt.
Guilt, too, was foreign to him. He could only be who he was.
“I am not bad,” he said with an exasperated sigh, as if scolding a small child—despite the fact that Munroe was most definitely his senior. “And neither is the wind. Don’t be dramatic.” The breeze picked up a little and floated around Munroe, teasing his mane and crawling around his legs. “See?” The wind became playful, winding around the duo before it fell into stillness once more. “You shouldn’t be so quick to judge,” he stated simply, snorting as he watched the stallion with an interested gaze.
Woolf
