Kierkegaard did not like Arrille; he had preferred to stay as far away from the young wolf as he could. The sad matter of things was that Caiaphas had taken a particular interest in the younger boy. So, while she tended to other matters, Kierkegaard sought to follow the blue-eyed wonder out beyond their borders and up the coast some ways. He remained far enough behind the youth that he would not be noticed for a long while, but he was able to keep decent pace with Arrille. The length of his limbs carried him in a few staggering steps until he noticed that there was a mixture of scents that had started to mesh together. This was concerning; several of them belonged to an unknown pack and Arrille had appeared alone.

Picking up his pace, Kierkegaard closed in on a scene that made him far more weary than he had ever felt. Another familiar face seemed to appear in the form of Ingram, but this did nothing to ease the ghost's mind, as he found Ingram to be nearly just as unbearable as Arrille. Still, he was intended to care for the members of Grimnismal, so he stepped forward and his lip curled over his aged and yellow fangs. The length of his ears splayed atop his crown and the molten color of his eyes darted across the Drageda wolves. He was there to protect Caiaphas' urchin, and so he would.

Another arrived from the unfamiliar pack and then one more from Grimnismal. If he had not been glancing over the reddish figure, he might have missed the words that were spoken – a language that he recognized. His played ears were drawn forward and he rose his head upward, entranced by the memory of that language and the number of times he had hear the word branwoda, and who had told him what it meant. Kierkegaard drew his gaze over the wolves who had gathered and frowned. Caiaphas should not be called to this scene, he thought to himself and grimaced. She would not have a diplomatic start or end to her actions, and he would sooner die to defend her than to last a single heartbeat more.

The dark female on the other side demanded that Ingram move, while the boy tried to defuse the situation to the very best of his ability. He was tired of listening to them babble at each other, and he did not have the patience to speak to the young female making demands. “Shof op,” the ghost barked, snapping his fangs toward the wolves of Drageda. He knew the bases of their tongue, but he also knew the wolf who ruled them; he had experienced her hand and had fought alongside her at one point. He knew if there was to be any form of diplomacy, she might be their best bet.

“Get @Thuringwethil, girl. We will not speak to any but her. Do it quick before I lose my patience,” he growled to the dark girl. His molten gaze flashed to her with a curl of his fang. He did not know this young girl, but he prayed that she was wise enough to listen without question. If she did not turn to retrieve their leader, there would likely be blood shed. Before even allowing her to respond, he thrust his muzzle forward in a swift motion to suggest that she leave.

“Go on now; I want to speak to your Heda.”