The ashen predator had not allowed himself to grow accustomed to the coast and the way that it worked. He had spent his life traveling through densely covered forests and along the threatening edges of high cliffs. It was growing more difficult to keep himself sustained on the sea. He was not suited for such a life, and so he was forced to teach himself. If the inky-hooded female that he had befriended was able to live successfully off of the nutrients that the ocean was providing, surely Kierkegaard would be able to do just the same. He had survived direr times. He had seen hardships that he would wish on no other. Famine would not take him.
 
Lengthy ash-colored limbs moved slowly, skirting the outside of the pools of water. His golden eyes were trained on the oysters beneath the surface. A scowl was printed on his features as he inched further to the right, aiming himself over the mollusk. The water reeked of saline. Crinkling his nose, the ghostly brute hulked closer to the pool, fur rising cautiously along his neck and spine. If he could dart into the depths and emerge with the oyster, he would be able to pry it open and eat the meat from inside.
 
Heaving a huff of a sigh, the Sairensu male lunged forward and felt his skull soak in the salt water. Blowing air from his nostrils, the carnal wolf latched his fangs onto one of the shelled creatures and ripped it from its home triumphantly. Dropping the oyster at his paws, the pale wolf shook his head miserably.

It wasn’t long before the pools found another body to occupy their space; a dark male with sharp eyes and a lean figure, though this was probably largely due to the famine that had swept the wilds. The bark that had struck Kierkegaard’s ears had not been done with hostility, and so he watched the dark stranger with a careful set of golden eyes. The oyster that he had managed to pull from the pool still sat at his paws, and he glanced down at it swiftly, wondering if it was what had drawn this other wolf over to where he stood. Deciding that he had a better chance of figuring out how to open the mollusk with the help of someone who – perhaps – knew the area better than he, the ghostly figure lifted his tail and flagged it once or twice to show that he was no harm.
 
“Do you know how to open these?” the brute then inquired with a sad glance down to his paws again. His brows furrowed on the shell of the oyster with some frustration. Part of him had wished he had spoken to Caiaphas about surviving on the shores before attempting to keep himself there. The ashen man had always found himself more at home on the cliffs. The sharp and jagged rocks had been a sort of solitude for him in times of need. But the need to survive was greater, and if the yellow-eyed pack leader on the coast had told him that the sea was full of things to hunt, he would have to try.

When the dark stranger responded to Kierkegaard and told him that he was not all too familiar with the ways of the ocean, the ghost felt a shaky breath slip from his lips. He could not fault the man for not knowing how to open the shell of the oyster, or even for not being well versed in ways to survive off of the oceanic prey. It was strange and foreign to him as well. He had crafted his existence on the prospect of being able to thrive anywhere, but the shoreline was proving to be far more difficult than he anticipated and if he was not able to find a way to feed himself, would turn fatal.
 
When the boy spoke of the seagulls carrying the oysters and dropping them, Kierkegaard’s ears were thrusted forward. A quiet chuckle rumbled from his lips and very suddenly, the ghost felt old. His head shook from side to side in almost disbelief as he glanced for a place to perch himself in attempts to drop the oyster. “Outfoxed by a bird,” he snorted.

The birds, though frustrating in their loud squawks and wildly flapping limbs, were seemingly intelligent creatures. As the ghostly brute moved to mimic them, eyeing the dark fellow down below, he dropped his oyster onto the rocks beneath them and then peered over the side with lifted brows. It had appeared successful, at least this one, and so he turned to pick his way back down and look at the splattering of oyster goo that was on the stone below. Drawing his tongue out, the ashen figure licked the remains from the rock and swallowed it as quickly as he could, finding a great distaste for the flavor that it held. Then, glancing toward the darker male with a quirked brow, Kierkegaard nodded his head.
 
“Seems to be the birds have got it all figured out,” he joked almost bitterly. Then, almost as if it were an afterthought, the Sairensu male flicked his fiery gaze back to the ink-coated boy. “My name is Kierkegaard,” he offered awkwardly. The gruff tone of his voice was not directed at the youth, but only an aftereffect of the life that the great ghost had lived.

There was almost a serpentine swivel of his neck as he craned his head in the direction of the dark male hoping that the words would not be lost on his ears. Though he was not yet an old creature, the years were wearing on him and he had found himself getting hard of hearing. It was a minute frustration for the pallid beast, as he had faced many different challenges. The thought of losing his hearing was one that frightened him; all of the loss that he had faced before had been because of a choice that he had made. If he were to lose his ability to listen, it would have been entirely out of his hands. Fate was a fickle and unforgiving creature. She had a way of preying on those who were already worn by their life events.
 
Realizing that he had remained near the tide pools for too long, the ghostly creature sought the gaze of the other wolf for a brief moment before he knew he was to excuse himself. A tired dipping of his muzzle was the gesture that was offered to Constantine. “It’s time for me to go,” he spoke quietly and turned his gaze toward the direction of home. The oysters would not provide him with the sustenance that he needed to continue trekking across the wilds. There was a small flag of his tail as he turned to depart from the company of the swarthy brute. Kierkegaard’s shape disappeared along the edges of the shore.