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 isn’t sure why he remains in the coastal kingdom, but he doesn’t hurry back—not right away. Perhaps it is the faint exhaustion that tickles the back of his brain or perhaps he simply has a lot of thoughts that he is currently working through, the mulberry stallion only half aware of his surroundings as he walks through the cliffs and rocky shores. He certainly wasn’t living the kind of life that he liked best. He was too involved, too surrounded by beings who had expectations of him, who could demand things of him.
That, paired with the temporary loss of his sister, was enough to drive him to moodiness.
So he doesn’t see the pair, not until he’s nearly on top of them.
He snorts a little in surprise when he realizes that he’s stumbled upon the pair, emerald eyes sharpening as they focus and he’s able to recognize what he’s truly standing before. For several moments, he remains silent, studying them. The mare is more brightly colored than perhaps any other he’s ever seen and the small child tucked into her side is beautiful in her own right, but that’s not what interests him. Such things never are. Instead, he notes the gritty look in her eye, the fierce edges of her, and the pain.
The pain that radiates around them with nearly tangible waves.
Woolf tilts his head, already hating himself for the selfless act he’s about to perform, and slices open his shoulder, gritting his teeth against the pain. Usually, he was able to do it without thought, the small pieces of health he sacrificed for his magic almost negligible, but he was sore and tired and overexerted and it stung. The blood welled to the surface on his shoulder, beginning to drip slowly down the stained flesh and he closes his eyes, letting his magic pool together before he lets it ripple outward in a great wave.
“You’ve had a hell of a go lately,” he says thoughtfully as he pushes the magic forward, letting it work through her. First, focusing on the broken wing. Then on the rest of the pain that shoots through her—the infection and the aches and the agony. When he’s done, he pulls it back into his tired body, although he doesn’t let that show on his impassive face. Instead he just dips his massive head, shifting his behemoth of a body into a more comfortable position, ignoring the twinge of pain beneath the surface.
“My name is Woolf.”
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
