Ankyra Sound ancient stones

puppies dad wants to poke u with his nose

The hound had spent as much time as he could near to the den so that he might tend to whatever Caiaphas would need. He had ventured out to hunt for her, returning with small game so that she could sustain the pups. While she rested, he would watch them sleep or wobble about on feeble legs until they grew tired or hungry. The young ones never strayed too far from her side, though, save for a few times; he had always been there to return them when they did. Kierkegaard had remained a dutiful sentry against anything that could cause harm to his kin or his mate.

The old brute was stretched out with his nose resting between his paws. His eyes found the wandering form of Ephraim and he watched with an amused twitch of his lip while the pup waddled in the same foot of space. Some part of the mercenary was afraid to go near to them. He knew that they were small and frail, and that he was larger than they would be for a great amount of time. But, the ghost wanted to know them, and so he inched closer and extended his muzzle to press softly into the flank of a dark young boy.

DITHER!

It was too early yet for her to know her father's scent, but she knew a heat-source when she felt one. She had been rudely ejected from her snuggle-spot alongside Illidan by the turmoil of her brothers and with a stifled wail she bobbed her head as she uncoordinatedly stumbled around. With Ephraim and Rhakios having their own bid over Caiaphas' flank, Raleska moved to easier climes. Like some tiny heat-seeking missile she wormed her way towards Kierkegaard, more roach than wolf as she inched across the cave floor.

With the strains of new life, Kierkegaard had not found very much sleep, and had spent a great deal of his time watching. He was careful to keep an eye on Caiaphas, and he spent his free moments hunting so that she might eat to sustain the pups. The ghost did his best to be available as often as he could for the sharp woman; he had only hoped to be a diligent guardian while she rested and tended to the whelps. There was a part of him that could not help but to be intrigued by their shapes and movements. He would follow one as it would worm its way just too far from the warmth of its mother and then cry. Kierkegaard would lean forward and place it back where it belonged with a gentle touch.

As Raleska moved toward him on frail limbs, he made space for her between his legs and watched as she closed the space between them and found the thick tufts of fur at his chest. With a slow approach, he moved his skull down and pressed his nose into her back. The ghost inhaled deeply, memorizing her scent as his kin and released a short breath of air against her thin coat.

Rewarded by the sense of warmth enveloping her, Raleska ceased her mighty wandering and slumped down, weary from the immense distance her tiny legs had travailed. A riffling sensation stirred along her back and she shuddered as Kierkegaard's cold nose trailed down her spine. Instinctively she arched up against it with a squall of disgruntlement, disliking the sudden current that passed through her newborn fur. As she clambered between his two massive front limbs (proper jungle gym courses, they were) she was aware he smelled different. Just as quick as the realization came, it fled, for her thoughts at this time were sadly and blissfully ephemeral.

The old man watched as his daughter toppled between his legs. Her dark figure was a sharp contrast to the ragged ash of his own pelt, but he enjoyed that she stood out so distinctly from him. Stretching his neck, he moved so that his nose hovered over her frame. The ghost breathed in her scent with a curiosity. She smelled so different from anything he had ever known. There was almost a fragileness to her aroma, but he could not have determined what made it that way. Raleska was innocent and pure in her youthful state. At this age, there was little that could tarnish the lackadaisical way that she lived her life. He thought of what could harm her and found himself in a state of discomfort. Though he tried his best, he had found himself climbing uphill in a battle that he was losing; he could not help but to feel a fondness for his children. Breathing in, Kierkegaard exhaled all of the air in his lungs against her back and repeated the motion with a ghost of a smile on the corners of his lips.

Raleska at this point in her life was aware only of comfort... and ... well, not-comfort: and only one of which her father was providing.

She struggled against the bulwark that was his long limbs, issuing tiny cries of dislike over the roving breath of wind that stirred her back. It was cold, and she did not like it - she tried to bury her head deeper into his wrists, her tiny paws clenched and small mouth stirring with bleating cries.

Noisy as she was, there was something strangely beautiful in the fragile creature’s frail body and churning limbs. Kierkegaard watched her tiredly, a smile lingering on the dark line of his lips. She cried and wailed, legs thrusting outward and pulling her toward whatever it was that demanded her attention. The ghostly hound stretched his neck and lifted her tiny body up, clutching at the scruff along the back of her neck, then placed her snugly against the thick tufts of jagged fur at his chest. Little Raleska could enjoy the warmth that he provided and hopefully would cease her cries. The ashen brute peered at her with a glint of curiosity in the molten orange of his gaze before he ran a loving tongue along the top of her head and allowed her to continue hunting in the jungle of his ash colored coat.