While the ghostly figure had set out to trailing the borders of his pack, he found himself in a weary mindset. The forest was lush again, having come alive with the return of the foliage and subsequently the return of a vast majority of the prey animals. Kierkegaard had fed himself to strength once more, and had found that the twisting branches of Rosings did not suit him well enough. The brute had not anticipated that he would have found a home there – not forever – and he knew that his time was drawing to a close within their ranks. They were wolves who had built a culture unlike any he had ever taken part in, and he no longer wanted anything to do with them. Their minds could not be changed or molded, and even Pallas had fallen to one of the natives in her attempt to challenge rank.
 
Lengthy pale limbs carried him slowly along the borders, stopping every so often to mark the terrain with his scent and to listen for any signs of followers or passersby. The surroundings had been silent as of late, and so had the inner tangles of the pack. The wild wood had been alive with hushed whispers when he had first laid claim to their leader’s rank and pulled it from underneath him. They had spoken, he was certain, of rebellion and war. After some time, he had heard nothing.
 
Pallas had done well in her duty, and even the alpha female of the pack had seemed taken aback by the nature of the ghostly brute. He was, more than anything, a survivor of his time. He had taken what he needed, and since the food had returned to the wilds and the brute had begun to feet again, Kierkegaard was beginning to think that he no longer needed the woods. It was not in his nature to live among them, adopting their culture and their lifestyle; he was a man of force and thunder. His pallid form belonged to the jagged incline and drop of the cliffs. Every so often, when the woods were at their quietest, he found himself longing for the caverns by the sea. The dank seclusion was something he had not felt in quite some time.
 
A noise pulled the man from the inner workings of his mind, and his ears were thrusted forward at the sound of something crashing through the brush. Pebbles seemed to bounce and scatter from not too far away, and the brute’s nostrils flared with the scent of rabbit. Lowering his skull toward the earth and darting forward, he caught the creature just as it was attempting to insert itself into the thick of the trees. His grizzled maw parted and he clasped his fangs around the throat of the creature before shaking it violently to an end.
 
Turning his skull in the direction of the ocean-eyed shadow, the ghost huffed greatly through his nares and his tail lifted upwards. The creature before him was not full wolf, but painted in the blood of another breed – one he was not familiar with. The fire of his optics roamed over her smaller figure and his breathing evened in the time that it took to approach her. Though she seemed to have turned to depart – not wanting to risk the borders of the pack – he released a quiet chuff to pull her back in his direction. Brows were knitted tightly over his gaze as he crossed the marking for the pack and tossed the hare into the dirt unceremoniously.
 
The woods were alive with prey and the rabbit, though welcome to their caches, was not a necessity. This dark female was not claimed, though, and Kierkegaard knew better than most the trials of living without the ranks of a pack behind him. Though she was not skeletal in appearance, the famine could not have been easy on the hybrid. So the rabbit would be hers, if she would take it. The ragged man had more pressing needs than a small catch.

Though Kierkegaard had spent a great many days traveling with his sister, he had not come across a creature quite like this one. She was dainty and lovely in a sense that there were few who could resemble her; tufts of fur rose from the tips of her ears like feathers, and her eyes shone with a strange oceanic intensity. He could assume that she was something of a hybrid – two different creatures fused together into one inky little feather. Part of him found it appealing, though he had always been a man who found himself drawn to those who were of smaller build than he. Many of the women he had come across in his many wanderings had been made of small-bone and their wiry frames had complimented his own. The girl before him was something of a vision, and he did not dare allow her to escape without her catch.
 
The ink-child seemed to whirl around and put herself into a position of submission before him. They were both on neutral territory, but he did not let the action go unnoticed and nodded his head to the flighty creature. The fire in his gaze roamed over her figure once more before he found himself intrigued by the breathless sounds that had erupted from her slender muzzle. There was a choke in her throat, almost as if someone had removed the ability to speak altogether. Even the attempt at a whine that she offered was nothing more than a short gust of air that passed between her leathery lips.
 
Furrowing his brows thoughtfully and canting his head to left, he neared her on towering pallid legs and lowered his skull so that his gaze had settled directly across from her own. The halfling nudged her rabbit toward him and he parted his jaws to wrap them around the hide of the hare, ripping away pieces of flesh and swallowing them whole. His sharp smoldering optics beckoned her own oceanic eyes to meet his, as if he were saying ’you do not have to look away, little one.’

The gentle touch of her cheek against his shoulder was almost foreign; it was the touch of another that had taken him by surprise, but it was not unwelcome. For a fleeting moment, the ashen male craned his neck around so that he could look upon her with his smoldering gaze and breathe. The quiet beauty of her was startling to the nomad. Kierkegaard had traveled a great duration of his life but never before had he come across such a stunning example of what wolves should be. All of the company that he had shared had not shown him such kindness and the warmth of her cerulean gaze was almost like a touch of comfort in itself. Her lack of speech was a blessing on his mind; he did not have to listen to the babbling of a stranger who spoke without the true knowledge of the world. It was as if he were stepping into the winter winds and breathing the crisp air that both shocked and livened him.
 
Nathimmel was not without words, though.
 
The ink-cloaked halfling had come to life at his few words – she darted forward and then back to him, halting so as to raise her tapered muzzle toward the sky and exhaled her voice. There was more expression in the twisting of her limbs and the sway of her heavily coated figure than there were in his entire vocabulary. In many ways, the wolfdog was more than he; she had evolved into something greater than he ever could. There was a fraction of him that was saddened by this. The ghost felt a twinge of melancholy at the thought that a mute had become an unearthly being in her short years, and he had wandered on for ages in hopes of finding the light that she held. The great brute was not one to believe in fates or the swing of the pendulum called ‘destiny,’ but there was a small whisper in the maze of his mind that suggested… perhaps he was where he needed to be. All of the actions that Kierkegaard had taken had pulled him into that singular moment. He could not have stated whether or not he was thankful or wary of such a turn of events. It was only within those past few months that he had dwelled often in the depths of his mind – analyzing everything with pinpoint precision until it ate away at him and all that he was.
 
When the breathy voice had faded and the sharp blue of her vision clung to him, he could not help the flicker of his leathery lips. The soft curl of a smile had almost been forgotten. It was as if his grizzled face had lost the memory of the action and forsaken him. Somehow, Nathimmel had rediscovered it without great effort. A light struck his fiery gaze and he breathed deeply, exhaling through his nares all of the wicked forces that had lingered there. The ghost knew that they would not be gone for long, though. They would return with a vengeance and he feared the ironclad clasp they would have on his mentality. That was the catch; he could abandon the plaguing thoughts for a short time, but they were sure to return with a tighter hold, and he was not certain that he could free himself again. The situation that he found himself in was an odd one. Nathimmel was a momentary light on his dismal state, but he could not ask her to explain to him her nature. He could not inquire how she had become such a pure soul – he simply had to live in that moment.
 
Fastening himself tightly to her shadowy visage, the pallid wanderer moved to close the distance that there was between them. He willed for their pelts to touch – just so that the length of his ragged fur could twine with her feathery tufts. Without the strength to prevent the words from falling from his lips, he peered at her sadly and uttered, “you have found me at a bad time in my life.” There was regret immediately afterward simply because he feared that she would request an explanation. The proof was evident in his unkempt figure. What once had been a powerful form had faded into something much more… tattered.