Along the back of his neck was a scar that had damaged his pride in ways that no one ever had. More harmful was it than the disappearance of his beautiful sister, and for all those months the rejection of Amara. He had taken care of his wound and laid low, refusing to address his new king or any of his new gathering-- refusing to show himself anywhere other than in front of his beloved Amara or his faithful followers. He had been useless, even when the pack was ready to strike back, he had told them no-- he could not help.

He now stood along the border, the same place he'd been attacked by the ghostly man, and let loose a loud howl. It was clear his intentions. This is my forest, I want you gone.

The call sounded overhead, though it did not seem to ruffle the great brute. His lengthy ears drew forward and he turned his skull in the direction of the summons. The lowly omega would be attempting to reclaim his thrown. Kierkegaard had known this day would come; the wolves of the forest did not care for him, and he did not believe that they would have allowed him to rule much longer in light of how soft and sweet their intentions had been before his arrival. They were not his kind; they did not know what it meant to survive and endure, and so the ghost wanted very little to do with any of them. The Sairensu male knew that the call would need answering, but he took his time in approaching the gathering of wolves. Rosings was full of creatures who could only find courage in numbers, and for this he was disgusted. The ghost could have taken hold of any other pack, but he had made a poor decision in the forest.
 
Picking his way through the tangle of trees and foliage, the pallid male followed the scent trail of Pallas. She was the only one he cared for in the ranks, and he would be certain that none of the natives would touch a hair on her hide. Once his smoldering gaze caught sight of the notched fur, he slowed beside her and drew himself next to the woman. “I will not have you die here. Not by the hands of these wolves,” he growled softly into her ear. When he spoke of the wolves of Rosings, it was not out of kindness, and the taste of them caused him to spat. “If you wish to still remain as a warrior of mine, leave these lands and I will find you by the lake.” Nothing more could be said to the female who had acted as his sword and shield for most of his time in the pack. She had done her task well, and if she made her choice to leave him, he would sorely miss her company.
 
Fixing his gaze on the gathering, the ghost stepped forward and fixed his vision on the wolf he had usurped. The madness had left his vision and his fur was ragged but not from the insanity of starvation. With a calm voice, the brute lifted his skull upward and eyed Aaron carefully. The other wolves did not perturb him in the slightest; they were nothing; they were like walking through air. He regarded the former alpha with a quirked brow and his lips twitched slightly. “You want your home back. I understand this. I will not fight you for it…” the ghostly brute rumbled in a tired baritone. He did not have the same passion for the woods as the man before him, and so he did not want to trouble himself with a battle of wits or limbs.
 
“I do not belong here, among these wolves,” the ghost gestured with his inky nose toward the surrounding beasts who had come to defend the man they believed had a greater authority over them. He would not attempt to persuade them that he was more fit to lead them; that he could bring them to a place of fury that most animals did not know. Instead, he flicked his tail upward and noted that Amara was not present. Recalling their tangle in the woods, he wondered what surprise would be found when the woman discovered that she was carrying one of his own. “You may not find yourself rid of me so easily, though,” he warned in reference to the alpha female. This was all he would give; the odds were not so greatly in his favor, but the brute knew that something was stirring in the wood. His blood had touched that land and would leave their home tainted for some time. To fight would only shred them more; it was time for him to step down.
 
Turning his back to the man before him, Kierkegaard did little to regard him as rightful alpha of the woods, but such was his nature. He was a savage and a brute; feral to the point of fault, but he was not a foolish creature. “The woods are your own again,” he growled softly. Without regarding the others who had lingered there as either support or arms warriors, he pushed his hind legs and forced himself into a steady lope from the pack. The woods would no longer be his home; he was a vagabond once more.