the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
[ drunk and driven by a devil's hunger ]
The day was cold, but he didn’t know it. His body was an inferno, raging with magic as it boiled and simmered within him, as he padded through the Forest on massive paws. He had, for a while, enjoyed the form of the stag, had enjoyed racing through the woods alongside that young, ethereal doe. The instincts had been primal, easily understood, and he had easily slipped into them. The enjoyment, however, had been short lived, and he had stripped himself clean of the prey’s body, embracing his predator form again.
Today, his wolf form was massive, not quite as tall as his normal 17 hands, but he could have easily stood shoulder to shoulder with most of his equine comrades. His thick coat remained his familiar mulberry color, his eyes emerald, as he slunk through the trees, his step graceful, quiet, paws finding silent purchase on the thin covering of snow. He was thankful for the coat he bore in this form, for the undercoat that kept his body so warm, for the top coat that kept the flakes of snow from every reaching his core.
It was convenient, and comfortable, and he could appreciate both things.
As he reached the edge of the forest, the trees thinning, he looked out into the more traditional meeting area. It was quiet today, and he could only assume it was because of the snow drifts that swept across the land, the wind picking up the old and mixing it with the new that fell from the sky. If there was ever a day to stay home, to find comfort in some tucked away alcove, it was today—but Woolf had no home, had no where to go to seek such primitive comforts, and so he snorted and turned back to the woods.
He would do as he did every day: he would wander.
