Ragged fur bounced along his shoulders, spiking messily in an assortment of places. Two molten orbs bobbed with the rhythm of his canter. The ghost followed behind as far as he dared himself. Her scent still hung on the breeze like a lazy perfume, drifting in and out of focus. Kierkegaard followed dutifully after, never wavering in his pace. Of course, he had never wavered before. As the two trekked along the shore, he found himself surprised that they had returned to the wilds at all. Then again, the ghost would have followed Caiaphas to the corner of the planet if that was where she had desired to travel. He could not imagine himself with another being; the pale brute could not have stomached the thought.

Large paws pressed into the sands as he traveled. Just as the coywolf faded from his line of sight, he picked his pace into a canter until he had slipped behind her no more than ten yards. The scent of a foreigner drifted on the wind, but he paid no mind. The mercenary plodded after the dark-hooded female as she made her way across the coast.

The waif emerged from the waters and trudged toward him, showering the sands with drops and splashes that fell from her coat. He watched her with a pair of molten eyes, ears fixed on the woman as she closed the space between them. For as much as she believed she owed him, he would disagree with all of it. The sea witch had been the savior to many of his problems. She had housed him when injured and aided him when he had stolen a child from the wilds. All the while, Caiaphas never asked questions and always accepted him for what he was. Kierkegaard was only – always – dutifully hers. She breathed life into his ragged frame and sparked the burning fire of his gaze.

Something pulled the sea witch from him. She snapped her head to peer down the stretch of beach. Slowly, his head lifted and he drew his ears forward. Someone was there, after all. Her narrow muzzle parted in another sounding cry. She beckoned the stranger toward them. Out of the mist, a youthful body bounded. His expression did not falter as the young boy closed all distance between them. The ghost stood silently and watched as Caiaphas was showered in emotion and affection.

It seemed that this young man had known the coywolf before she had tumbled into the waters. He seemed attached to her on a level that Kierkegaard could not quite understand. His ashen frame swayed with the small gusts of wind brought in from the sea. Each rigid quill that stood along his neck and shoulders seemed to dance in the ocean breeze. His lengthy ears swiveled with each statement that poured from the stranger's mouth. Awkward as it might have been, the statuesque figure did not move from her side and watched – almost protectively – from the corner of his amber gaze.

The two wolves shared in a dance of love. The ashen mercenary watched with an unphased expression on his rugged face. Both eyes were trained to the coywolf female. It was not his moment to partake in, but he was still quite determined to ensure she had him at her back in every occasion. His mind had wandered to the thought of losing her and though it was a dreadful thing to consider, Kierkegaard did not imagine that he would survive something of that caliber again. Surely, the young boy felt the same for Caiaphas. 

The sea witch turned the pale youth to face him. The ghost watched with a small frown on his dark lips. Amber eyes roamed over the young man before him. Her son... he did not have much to say. While Caiaphas was acting as the introducer, her boy did not seem too verbal. This was all fine. Kierkegaard was not a verbose character at all. To the greeting from the young male, the ashen brute bobbed his head lightly and grumbled a greeting that slipped through gritted teeth. He did not need to confess his feelings for Caiaphas to her young. The ghost had nothing to share with Lycaon. Perhaps, in time, he would find his voice. In the moment, he remained a watchful guardian. The length of his ears swiveled to catch their conversation, but nothing more.