Blackfeather Woods each night reunites me with the feral tenderness of my own evil

The boy licks his lips. He's an agitated beast at this point, always wanting something to fill the void that the medicine has created. Hungry for it. Needing it. As he moves he's deliberate in his action but his haunches still quiver, and for all that it mattered it felt like his soul was shaking too; he wanted to know what the stranger was looking at in such a fixed manner. How could he achieve the same thing? This couldn't have been the poppies. They were medicine that eased suffering and the floating sensation was something he was desperate for, but Mou would take anything at this point. Whatever this wolf had been eating brought him to another state of conciousness beyond the floating, perhaps right through the veil.

The stranger spoke, but it was with sounds Mou didn't understand and so he ignored them. The tone was all he could go off of, and the slight motion of his broad snout towards the trees and the shadows; he answers only with the hinging of his muzzle and a few airy huffs, because he cannot answer even if he wants to. But Mou continues to stalk around the stranger until he finds a cluster of mushrooms that look as if they've been disturbed. There are pieces missing and Mou can figure out the rest.

He lunges for the mushrooms without thinking, letting the stranger fade in to the blackness of his eyeless side as he grabbed and gobbled. Soon he would be on the same plane as this young man — but most importantly, he'd find something to replace his medicine with, something stronger, something better.