the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
{drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
In some ways, Munroe and Woolf were not entirely different. In fact, they were surprisingly similar in their lack of foundational knowledge regarding social graces. Where Munroe remained slightly feral in his nature—rudimentary in conversation—Woolf remained impassive. His mother was graceful and sweet, but he had not given her the opportunity to rear him. His mind had already billowed outward, more interested in the nebulas swirling overhead and the molten rock rushing beneath them to ever truly care about learning how to behave correctly in social circumstances. It left him awkward, although he did not have the wherewithal to be ashamed of it.
He simply behaved and spoke his mind however he wished.
“Perhaps you should not be so quick to be scared,” he countered lazily, growing bored with having to defend himself to the pale stallion. “Stop calling the wind bad. It simply is—it can neither be good nor bad. Assigning it characteristics is futile.” He couldn’t understand why the flexing of magic was so terrible to the other. It wasn’t as if he had ripped his flesh—although he could have—and it wasn’t as if he had lifted him from the ground—although he thinks he could have done that too. The latter would have most likely required some small sacrifice though. Woolf had not dabbled too much with the depth of his blood magic, but he did not fear having to bleed for his power. It was simply a truth of his world.
Taking a step forward, Woolf tilted his mulberry head to the side. “Why do you despise magic so much?” He could, of course, just root through the stallion’s thoughts and memories to find the answer—and was still tempted by the idea—but, for now at least, he wanted to hear the reasoning from the wild one for himself. Perhaps knowing why he thought he hated would help him flesh his view of the world out more.
Woolf
