Kierkegaard was not a man of manners. He had not been raised to treat others with respect, or to adhere to rules of courtesy when it came to those outside of his intimate group. When he caught sight of the pale female – her strange markings having gained his attention – he had followed her some distance until she began to hunt.
Winters were difficult. The ghostly male had found the lack of prey to be troubling. His hunting skills were strong, but he did not always have the luck of happening across creatures to catch. He had been fortunate up until he had taken Signe. Not only did he hunt for the pack, but he hunted for the inky pup. Without food, she would die, and though she would have died without his aid to begin with, Kierkegaard knew he was responsible for her wellbeing.
After having trailed behind the stranger for a short duration, she happened across her beaver. She had injured it well enough that it had died some distance away from where she had attempted to catch it. Narrowing his brows, the brute lowered his head to the earth and frowned. She was young, smaller than he, and she was alone; this was easily established in the amount of time he had shadowed her. It would not be difficult to take her catch. And he had no qualms stealing from the youth. It was a difficult world, and she would learn this soon enough.
Stepping forward, the male lifted his head and leered at the young girl with sharp golden eyes. “Fine catch,” he growled in a gruff baritone. The fur along his neck and spine stood rigid.

As was expected, she did not take to his words kindly. Instead, he watched as she bristled and regarded him with a monosyllabic response. Then, the pale woman took position to guard the catch. The ghostly brute did not think this a wise move. He was not opposed to fighting the youth, though he would take no pride from it. It was a matter of survival. They were both predators; it was their nature to challenge each other. In that sense, he could not find her foolish for wanting to protect what was – essentially – rightfully her catch. Kierkegaard did not have to allow it to persuade him one way or another, though. He was pressed to make his intentions clear, had he not already.
Drawing his muzzle upwards, the ashen creature regarded her with a few slow blinks before drawing his lips back and revealing yellowed canines. “I will be taking it,” he snarled at her, seething. She had moved to prevent him from going further, but the male forced another step forward and lowered his head. Kierkegaard would give her a single opportunity to relinquish her prey and move along. If she chose to stay and fight, her youth would not intimidate him. He was as uncouth as they came, and the child would make for easy combat.