Ankyra Sound sheepskin

Since his injured body had washed ashore and he had been returned to Grimnismal, the ghost had done his best to regain some of his strength. He had forced himself to wander the borders of their pack until he could not carry the weight of his own body. It was in this that he hoped he would find his fire again. Each trek seemed to take more from him than it did to restore his spirit. Still, he was mindful to keep the pack territory marked and safely guarded. As hobbled as he was, the old man was still stubborn as a bull and would not cease his work within Grimnismal.

Making his way toward the only real entrance to the sound, Kierkegaard caught wind of an unfamiliar scent. He quickened his pace, forcing a limp to his tired limbs. As he closed the distance between himself and the entrance to their claim, he regarded the stranger with furrowed brows and a thin-lipped expression. Drawing his tail upward some, the ghostly brute pulled himself closer and snorted softly to the stranger. Not sure what his business was, Kierkegaard remained a dutiful sentry and stood as a block between the unnamed wolf and the ocean that he seemed to be searching for.

“What do you want?”