Ankyra Sound On the horizon, out on the edge of the world

The flurry of entitled words that tumbled from her lips had deeply astounded the pale guardian. It would not have been the first time that he found himself shocked at her display, or the sharp cut of her tongue, but as she continued, he started to believe it would be the last.

Kierkegaard had spent the entirety of his life serving those who needed him. He had fought alongside many he found appalling. The brute had stood strongly at the side of numerous leaders that did not deserve their position. He had never cared, so long as he was rewarded with what he had desired. The ghost would have fought alongside the foulest of creatures if it meant that he would have his pay. Caiaphas’ love of the sound and the dark grotto had been the weighing factor in his permanence within Grimnismal. He had done well in listening to the quick tongued leader, had dutifully protected her claim and her family, all while standing as a quiet sentry beside the dark-hooded woman he called his mate. Kierkegaard had been content with living through the rest of his days in the confines of the ocean pack, and in protecting it from any danger that may have found a way through. He had not grounded himself in preparation for the tyrant who stood before him.

Wylla flooded him with her words. He felt as though he had toppled from the tops of the cliffs once more and had started only on day one of being thrown about by the waves. Each scornful word caused his coat to bristle and his eyes to light with fire. Before his summons, he had been willing to accept the terms of his punishment. He imagined he would have been expected to fill each cache, mark every edge of their borders, and wait on the royal snake Wylla. The snap of her words cut deep. She questioned his loyalty; she wanted to take his children from him. Perhaps if he had been younger, the terms would not have bothered him, but he knew that he would never have children again. The four pups who were tucked carefully beside Caiaphas within the grotto were all that he had left.

The ghost drew his dark lip over his yellow incisors and a growl hitched against the back of his throat. It was then that the brute threw aside all foundation of respect. His crown lifted, and his eyes wandered dangerously close to her own. The burn in the pit of his stomach fueled him. “No,” the ashen hound growled sharply. It was not a no to any one piece of her tirade; he was standing firmly against everything she had said.