Ankyra Sound ancient stones

The old man watched as his daughter toppled between his legs. Her dark figure was a sharp contrast to the ragged ash of his own pelt, but he enjoyed that she stood out so distinctly from him. Stretching his neck, he moved so that his nose hovered over her frame. The ghost breathed in her scent with a curiosity. She smelled so different from anything he had ever known. There was almost a fragileness to her aroma, but he could not have determined what made it that way. Raleska was innocent and pure in her youthful state. At this age, there was little that could tarnish the lackadaisical way that she lived her life. He thought of what could harm her and found himself in a state of discomfort. Though he tried his best, he had found himself climbing uphill in a battle that he was losing; he could not help but to feel a fondness for his children. Breathing in, Kierkegaard exhaled all of the air in his lungs against her back and repeated the motion with a ghost of a smile on the corners of his lips.