Snow had gathered over what would have been rolling green fields and settled there like a blanket. It seemed as though it had housed the earth underneath in a chilling grasp, leaving nothing to the imagination of what could have been. He had left the sound to scout the nearby territory, hoping that he might find something of interest. There was very little aside from the neighboring pack, and he did not dare to venture too close to their borders for fear that he might start a war between the two. So instead he had wandered in the opposite direction and climbed high until he stood on the edge of the bluff and overlooked the sea. To drop would be certain death, but the ghost did not mind the dangers of such a precarious perch.
Moving slowly along the mouth of the bluff, his molten gaze trailed the rocks that were scattered below and the slow lap of the water against the edges of the earth. Birds cried overhead as they fluttered past; their wings beat against the air like soft drums. Kierkegaard listened with swiveling ears as he continued his slow plod. In a short time, he would feel obligated to return to the pack. For now, he enjoyed the breath of freedom.
The pair of molten optics locked on the drifting frame of a dark shadow. He followed at enough of a distance for a short while, keeping an eye on her movements and curiously waiting to see if she would plummet to her death. While it was a morbid waiting game, he did not know this wild young beast and so he cared very little about her safety. When it appeared that she might fall, the inky wolf managed to hold herself and then collapsed in shock. Kierkegaard was amused for a flashing moment. He did not slow his pace, though, and had closed a great deal of distance between them. The stranger did not seem to take notice of the looming specter. He released a quiet growl to announce his presence before crunching through the snow to stand near her.
Heavy breathing fell on his ears. The mercenary regarded her quietly for a moment before he found himself realizing that a lone young wolf might make an ideal gift for Caiaphas. ”You’d best watch your step,” the brute remarked in a deep-throated baritone. He hovered close enough so that if she should attempt an escape, he would have a good chance of latching on. Being so close to the edge, it would not have been wise of her to risk it.
The dark young girl seemed to be startled by his presence. The wild-haired ghost watched her with a glint to his gaze and a scowl that lingered too long against his lips. His brows were furrowed into a knot over his eyes, but the pair of amber optics was trained on her features and would not be moved. The length of his ears was drawn forward and stiffened at the sound of her voice. He nearly gritted his teeth against the noise of her stammering and uncertainty. It was not until she managed a full sentence that he released the clench in his jaw and turned his gaze toward the bluff and the dramatic drop that would surely spell death to anyone who might miss it.
“Mmm,” he mused with a soft not – it was a grunt of agreement toward her obvious observation of the bluff. The next remark that fell from her lips seemed to strike him almost as a demand. Intrigued by it, Kierkegaard turned his skull toward her and frowned deeply. Somehow, his brow furrowed further and cast a looming shadow over his sharp eyes. “No,” the ghost grunted with a slightly curled lip. “You can simmer down. Shouldn't matter where I'm standing.”
The expression that followed dared her to challenge him.
It seemed that the young dark girl had grown some sound legs. She argued that his position and his frightening nature had placed her in a precarious spot. This did not settle well with Kierkegaard. His brow furrowed roughly over his burning gaze and he snorted at her in contempt. Still, she seemed to find herself on a set of wobbly limbs that had granted her a better position than he had been in before. The ghostly figure watched her with a scowl, still not moving from his rigid-legged standstill. His head was canted just slightly to the right, and a single ear was swiveled off to the side. The fear that was lingering in her pores had invaded his nostrils. The ghostly figure continued to watch her.
“I haven't done a damn thing to make you scared of me,” he grunted with a cold frown. “You'd best learn the difference between a real threat,” he took another step toward her and lifted his skull upward, gesturing toward the bluff and the severe drop, “and the one that's only in your head.” Of course he was referencing the dangers of the fall in comparison to his presence. So far, only the threat of the fall should have been enough to make her quiver, but the more she tested Kierkegaard's patience, the more she would see the dangers in him.
“You look scary!”
Kierkegaard snorted with a ghostly smirk at this remark. He took one last step forward and lifted his crown upward to look down at her. The fire that lingered in his molten gaze should have been enough, but the fur rising along his neck and shoulders would positively solidify his threat. The mercenary swung his skull toward her in a sharp movement before he stopped, guarding his throat from any desperate attempt at an attack, and bore his glare into her. Though he had not often seen himself, Kierkegaard had – more than once – been told that he was a frightening figure. He did not understand how something could appear daunting without first having shown appropriate action.
It did not take long for the girl to begin spouting pleas of forgiveness. This was something that came as a surprise to the ash-coated sentry. His ears flattened to his head and the brute reared back a bit to frown deeply on the girl. It was evident that she had been raised as a polite and gingerly sort of being. It was a lifestyle that he would never understand. With a slightly curled lip, Kierkegaard straightened himself and looked fixedly at the young girl.
“You're spineless.”
There was something about the way that she flipped between mentalities that amused the great ash-coated creature. He watched as she switched to an indignant argument, staring at him with bright blue eyes and a puffed chest. Something in her was trying to reclaim what she had been told when she was younger. Before long, the girl was spouting words of dragons and how dragons – of course – had spines. Kierkegaard regarded her with a skeptical scowl that clouded his features and cast an unflattering light on the burning embers of his eyes. He stood as a startling contrast to the youth in her form, but he held his own well and he was not afraid of a child with a dragon-complex.
It was obvious that the ghost was not moved by her words. He furrowed his brow tightly over his gaze and shook his head before his dark lips curled in a cold smirk and he quirked a brow upwards at her. “Where is your mother now, girl?” he inquired in a rumbling baritone. His voice sounded far more sinister than he had intended, but he was not one to take back his word. The ghostly male rarely spoke to such strangers, so he saw no reason to rescind his question.
The dark child stammered over her words and Kierkegaard's lips curled over his fangs with a thunder-like chuckle that felt as though it was rattling his ribs. He could see the wariness in her gaze and he predicted that she would attempt to flee in a short amount of time. There was not much that he wanted to do to prevent her from leaving, because he did not know what he could make of her. Still, there was something inside of him that pricked like a small reminder that he had almost forgotten about. Caiaphas might like this young girl – she might find her easily malleable. He knew that the dark-hooded love of his life would find her a pleasing addition to her small collection.
Watching her limbs as she attempted to move herself away, Kierkegaard placed a single paw in front of her and frowned. “You don't have to be spineless,” he told her with a thoughtful expression. Though he was old and did not favor social interaction, it did not mean that he was incapable. He had been put in a place to negotiate his own value many times.
The dark young girl stopped dead in her tracks and her eyes glazed over, looking out beyond him and where he stood in opposition of her departure. The fear that had gripped her did not go unnoticed, but he had cast it aside. Had he been any more intent on frightening the younger wolf, he surely would have heard her heart beating out of her chest. Kierkegaard could almost feel it thrumming against the longest fur of his limb.
In a single moment, everything shifted in his favor. The girl with the pale blue eyes turned to face him and a single question fell from her lips. Already, she had found enough strength not to flee from him in fear. More than this, she had bought in to his remark and this allowed him to believe that she did not think of herself as much more than spineless, too. It was sad, but if he could lure her back to Grimnismal, perhaps that could change.
“The pack where I am a member is not too far from here. You come to join our ranks, and I will train you,” he offered her.
“What does it matter?”
The question fell from his lips abruptly and he furrowed his brows at her. For an offer such as this, the ghostly figure imagined that she would leap for such an opportunity. It was not often that he would propose something of the sort. The dark girl was not in a position to be questioning his motives for the offer, though, and he made it abundantly clear that he was displeased with her inquiries. The curl of his lip and the ruffling of his already ragged coat would have been enough body language to demonstrate his feelings on the matter. Still, he suspected that she would want a more compelling reason for a man like himself to take her under his wing.
“I'm old and don't have any children of my own. I'd like to teach someone what I've learned,” he lied to her with a small shrug. “There are others who will teach you as well, and some who are softer of heart for you to... make friends.” As he said it, he wondered if that was something that young girls sought. He did not rightfully know what most wolves wanted at her age, but he had given it a good effort and faced her with an expectant stare.
It had gone far better than he had expected, but it appeared that the dark girl was interested to accept his offer. Kierkegaard regarded her with raised brows for only a moment before he nodded his head and began trying to formulate his next steps with her. He had not had very many instances with Wylla, so he was not sure how her demeanor was on any given day. If she was anything like Caiaphas, the ghostly figure imagined that she would be difficult to persuade. Kierkegaard did not want to show back up on the borders of Grimnismal with a frightened little ink blot and attempt to coerce the smoke and charcoal woman that Kaori was worthy of a rank in Grimnismal.
“The Alpha will want you to be strong, so we will work to boost your tenacity as we travel,” he instructed her with a gesture of his muzzle in the direction that they would be heading. As an after thought, the ghost realized that he did not even know what the girl was called. He had a brief flash of memory to another young, dark-coated girl that he had picked up. It seemed that he and Caiaphas were more alike than they appeared.
“What is your name? More importantly, do you want to keep it?”
The inky girl asked him if he would still train her if she was not granted an acceptance into their ranks. He had not quite thought of this possible outcome, but he imagined that he would be able to vouch for her; it could very well have just been enough to make a difference in Wylla's eyes. He mulled her question over in his mind several times and then frowned. “It would be easier to have you in Grimnismal,” he remarked to her gruffly. It was not a promise that he would still take her under his wing if she was denied, but still did not come off as being dismissive. Kierkegaard would leap from that bridge once he had arrived at it. Until that time came, he would assume that she would be allowed in without too many qualms.
Kaori; the name latched to his mind and he nodded his skull as if to tell her that he had heard her and he understood. “I am Kierkegaard,” he then returned in the form of a grunt. She asked him if it would be best to shed the name or if she was better off keeping it. The ghost shrugged his shoulders and one side of his mouth shot down in a half-frown. “You can keep it if you're attached, or we can find something else for you. It's your call, kid,” he finally answered and looked to her to see if she would make her mind up immediately.
So, Kaori opted to keep her own name. He didn't say it, but Kierkegaard found it admirable that she would hold onto the calling. He had been faced with the same choice and had held fast to his given name. So, already they had found something that they had in common. The ghostly figure believed that he would have a better chance with the dark young thing because of her age. She had reached adulthood but was still well into her youth; Kaori had so much ahead of her. Signe had been different, he told himself; Signe had been too young and he had not had the patience. While he had not necessarily gained even a modicum of poise, he believed that her age would grant them a bit of room to breathe.
The two trudged back to the edges of the pack, where Kierkegaard prepared to present her to Wylla. The young leader was something of a wild card, and the inability to predict her made things difficult. Still, as long as he did not allow Kaori to cross over into the territory until she was invited – if she was invited – he believed that they would stand a decent chance.