Blackfoot Forest cried his wife impatiently.

<3

Hunger had turned the ghost into a foul and fury-driven beast. It had pulled him from the coast and set him on the packlands. Ragged breaths fell from his maw as he lumbered deeper into the marked land. Kierkegaard was not wary, though; he was burning with the need to quench the hunger in his gut. His breathing rasped from his throat. Were it not for the stench of blood in the air, perhaps he would have missed the other wolf altogether. This was not the case. Fiery eyes found the male with his catch clasped in his jaws. Ashen fur stood on end and the ghost snapped his fangs together with a gutteral rumble. 

Kierkegaard - so torn from the reclusive and stoic nature that he had built - did not act with caution. He wanted to breathe the blood of this beast. The ghost wanted to take everything from him to show this pack animal the true nature of starvation. Without warning, the great pallid wanderer dove through the foliage with a wicked glint in his gaze. His fangs were aimed for the other male's throat.