bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
Woolf does not care to get himself involved in the shifting of Beqanna.
He is apathetic as Carnage’s message takes over his magic, annoyed at the intrusion in his mind, but he knows better than to pit his magic against the Dark God’s. He is powerful, but he is not stupid, and he knows that he would need more than just his own blood to even attempt magic that could withstand Carnage. But neither is he interested in obeying the call, bending his head toward the wishes of the grey stallion and so he doesn’t. And, as luck would have it, he is busy at the time, preoccupied with his sister and the trouble that she’s managed to get herself into with her child and the wolf and the girl of glass.
More problems that are now his to solve.
If he could, he’d pinch the bridge of his nose in annoyance.
But then his vision is taken over again and he growls low in his throat, thoroughly frustrated by those who deem to wield control over him in any capacity. Except this one comes with a message more pointed. This one comes making deals and he finds that he is intrigued. He chews it over for a few minutes before he decides to follow up on it, making sure his affairs are in as much order as they can be, before he teleports himself to the isle. Blood runs down his leg, matting along the feathers, and he scowls at Heartfire.
“I am not a house pet to be summoned when you wish, sister.” But there is no real heat to his voice, just the idle shadow of one. He knows he is weakened by the sudden onslaught of sickness, by his sister’s exhaustion, and the idea of a new source is tempting—tempting enough that he remains before her still. His eyes narrow as he takes her in, the sickness becoming more prominent on her features. His gaze slides to the girl at his side but return quickly to her. He has no real concern for the child, just yet.
“You couldn’t have picked a warmer spot?” Annoyed, he slices open the spot alongside his haunches again, the area more lacerated than usual and the sting of it more than usual. Temporarily, the area around them warms considerably until he grows more comfortable and he shakes the dust off his coat, frustrated by the toll the relatively minor magic took on him. “Now, why don’t you tell me what you had in mind.”
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
