Wolf RPG - ghosts

@Silvermane

The ridge served as some semblance of a home for Kierkegaard. He could not deny that he had become somewhat riveted by the vast stretch of towering rock. His spare time – which had dwindled – was spent on the peaks that defined the ridge.
It had been late evening by the time he had left the territories around the Spine, and the night had crawled until it found itself dead when he finally reached the set of stone marked as Porcupine Ridge. The clouds that loomed overhead were faded by the black backdrop of a star-less sky. The ashen ghost glanced upwards, drawing air into his lungs with heavy breaths. His fiery eyes seemed to roam across the stones he had already traversed, finding himself unwilling to trek on a path already forged by his own paws. He was not certain he wanted to explore the peaks of the ridge at all, however. The night was late, his limbs were agitated and he had been running on a severe lack of rest.
Kierkegaard moved upwards until he found himself a small outcropping near a dangerous drop-off. His lengthy limbs held him, stock-still in the darkness, as he peered over the edge. The long blades of fur along his spine rose unwillingly and lingered there before he pulled himself away from the drop-off and huffed through his nostrils. It very well could have been the danger that drew him to the ridge, but more than that… he enjoyed the silence, the absence.

Silvermane was grumpy, he had come into conflict with a girl and had still had himself badly hurt. This is such bullshit. he thought, while slowly he had slowly begun to make himself way on the stroll, easily setting off track as his continuous search for the alpine flower which would most likely set him to sleep, yet he had forgotten the name of the white flower. He had made his way around a mountain in to the area he had never seen, it was late, and the dusk had already begun to make its way gone. He was extremely tired, and the detour he took had set him off into a direction near the Sunspire mountains, setting him off into the land of Nod.

As he finally arrived into the valley which had been set into the mountains, he had had stopped on the way down, seeing a figure on the top of a Ridge. Was it a wolf? It seemed gray and brown, and he had to squint to see the preciseness of the animal, was it Suicidal or something, or maybe it could just help him with the tracking, either case, he let out a strong call which echoed into the valley, hopefully loud enough for the seemingly stone-coloured animal to respond, if it knew wolf tongue ""Hey Gray! What the heck you doin'?"" was his shout, he wasnt rude, but still, atleast annoying enough to grab the dumb animal's attention

A voice rang out above the silence with a crisp crack that startled Kierkegaard from his stoic perch. Whirling with such force that the fur along his neck and spine seemed to stiffen, the ash-colored male locked his gaze on the pale creature. Irritation immediately flared inside of him and he found his upper lip peeling wayward to expose yellow canines. Lengthy ears flattened threateningly to the top of his head and he clicked his teeth together to demonstrate his discontentedness with the creature who had beckoned him so rudely. There was not a response that was appropriate enough for the smoke-colored wolf to muster. He could not force himself to answer the white-furred stranger’s calling without his words striking the air with a bitter bite attached. Fixing his eyes on the build of the strange wolf, Kierkegaard took several steps in the other male’s direction before stopping.
The stench of an unfamiliar pack surrounded the pallid wolf’s body. More than this, however, Kierkegaard was already noting particular features about the stranger’s figure. He seemed tired – from either travel or from an altercation – which made him vulnerable. The opposing male had no means of persuading Kierke. “Leave,” the monster snarled, saliva dripping from his jowls in the final moments of his teeth connecting. The lands were not claimed, but Kierkegaard did not see this as an issue. He was territorial over a piece of land that did not belong to him, but he was confident that he could force the white-furred male out.

"My, Dickens, what has gotten into thee?" he mocked "Thou shan't speak so to thine guests," he called out In all seriousness though, dont be a dick. he noted, he made himself abit casual, and set himself down Pretty comfy... Shame some asshole is hoarding it all, he said Last time I checked it wasn't owned by anyone, or am I wrong, your majesty?", before looking at him, and rolling his eyes, Don't be a bitch, your highness

your patience is astounding. <3 sorry for the wait on this, my friend!

Words were lost on the savage creature. A silver-tongued fool was still nothing more than a fool to the ghostly male, even with words of jest made in poor humor to a ragged beast. Kierkegaard watched with flashing golden eyes as the white-furred stranger took it upon himself to take a seat, all the while spouting nonsensical sentences – structured only to pass through the ashen brute’s lengthy ears. It did nothing to enrage him further. There was only red in his vision.
Once the white-furred male had taken his seat, Kierkegaard found his footing and darted forward, jaws snapping in the direction of the male’s muzzle. His golden eyes were wild with a wickedness that could not have been compared to many other creatures. He was not simply a beast of the wild. He was a turbulent fitting of taut muscles and vicious instinct. He was nothing more than savage.