the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
{drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
Woolf was surprisingly single-minded, removed from the daily worries that seemed to plague so many of his bloodline. He did not indulge in the false relationships that they crafted or the arrogant self-obsession that they called loved; he did not fancy himself a god among them, nor did he think of himself as a beggar. He was wholly removed from their trivial lives. He had no time for their politics (they had frayed so many) or their romances (they had killed so many others) or their wars. During his time here (before he had flung himself far and wide into the abyss), he had floated amongst them as fog.
Watching closely, peering into their lives without understanding.
Trying to rationalize their irrational behavior.
Now that he was back and stripped so cleanly of his gifts, he found himself…frustrated. An emotion he had never felt before. It was a curious thing, and he stepped back to observe it—detaching himself so that he could study his response as one might study a new creature. What of the situation stirred such a response in him? Was it the powerlessness? The injustice to be punished for wars he did to call for, for deaths he had not demanded? He grew curious but, eventually, placed it aside. He would peel back the flesh of his own queer emotional response another day. He would delve into it another time.
Instead he glanced up, looking at the buckskin stallion with recently displaced curiosity. At one time, he may have crawled into the man’s mind, mapping out his family ties to see if they were linked (in some ways, they were, but nothing directly—Woolf cared only for blood relatives). But such past times were now forbidden, and he fidgeted irritably in response. It was this irritation that drove him from the shadows, a blending of mulberry and emerald, and placed him before the man. “What have you lost?” he asked, his form of a greeting, because even stripped of his devices, he knew enough to recognize loss.
Woolf
