Blackbeak Bluff feeling so faithless, lost under the surface

Snow fluttered down from above, flecked against a dark grey background that seemed to have washed over the world. Even the ocean lapped quietly down blow, as if to allow the winds a chance to have their voices be heard. Though it was not entirely wise, Kierkegaard had ventured back to the bluff where he could look down across the stretch of ocean from a comfortably lofty perch. The moon had stretched through the clouds and was shining down toward the water in an eerie glow. It struck his coat and caused the quill-like hairs to dance along his neck and spine. The ragged fellow trudged upward until he happened upon a peculiar sound that had caught the wind. It was carried to him and then disappeared altogether.

A pair of molten eyes scoured the terrain until they latched onto the figure of a greyscale wolf. The beast did not appear to be familiar to the ghostly sentry. He opted to hold himself at something of a distance, though his curiosity had trained his ears into an upright and forward position atop his skull. As he picked his way along the edges of the bluff, his fiery gaze danced along the shape of the stranger's body; a quiet spirit against the wintry backdrop.