Ankyra Sound Grubble Rubble

It seemed as though the ashen mercenary had struck a chord with the young bright-eyed wolf. The older brute peered down at him with a cold scowl and a splaying of his ears in opposing directions. His upper lip twitched, curling slightly over a single canine before it returned to its position. Kierkegaard had never been spoken to in that manner before, and he was eager to show this young beast why that was an important breach of social communication. “You want to know why he left you and your mom behind, boy?” he growled, stiffening his limbs and glowering at the younger wolf with a merciless flash of his teeth.

“He's a piece of shit. There's no other reason to it. You'd like to know how I know? I left my kids dozens of times. My father did the same to me,” he snapped. Then, a cruel sort of snicker passed across his muzzle and he shook his head in disbelief, turning himself away from the emotional child. Kierkegaard didn't have enough of a reason to remain there; he did not want to willingly subject himself to the tantrums of the young.

Snorting, the grey brute started to leave the grotto and frowned back at the younger male. “Your father isn't a special kind of piece of shit. You're better off just letting him go.” If Arrille wanted to waste his life in a search for answers, it would make no difference to Kierkegaard. Still, the old hound knew better than to chase after things. Perhaps when the blue-eyed youth had grown to Kierke's age, he would understand how much time he had wasted.