Blackfoot Forest Broken Drum

He liked her – Pallas Stormthorn – she had a way about her that the wolves of Rosings did not, and the ashen brute was confident that she would make a perfectly capable guardian over him. The scars in her muzzle did well to remind the man that he would need warriors on his side if he were to succeed in taking the pack. He had already used his force on them; he had taken from them the only constant that they had had. Change was necessary, however, and he would show them what they could become when faced with a different leader. His ways were curt and cold, and he was a man who found himself prone to acts of physicality over verbal commands. Actions spoke far louder than any words he had known.
 
Aaron disappeared into the forest once more, and Kierkegaard followed him with a trailing gaze. He was curious as to where the pale creature could be sulking off to. Without another thought, he flicked his ears and drew his gaze back to the woman who had come seeking sustenance and had found herself a place in his ranks. “Welcome then, Pallas. I am Kierkegaard; we will be seeing a lot of each other in the days to come,” he warned her. His mouth had curled down and his expression was stern, but he was still grateful this woman had arrived when she had.
 
Turning to Minna, the ashen ghost nodded his head slowly. He did not think that the agouti female could persuade their new recruit to turn against him. Pallas seemed closer to his brood than theirs. “Yes, Minna please show our new member around the pack. Thank you for your willingness,” gruff words once more fell from his lips. With a quick glance back to the battle-worn woman, Kierkegaard’s gaze bore holes into Pallas’ face. “Come and find me once you are finished,” he told her. The words that he wanted to share with his new guardian would be best left between the two of them, and saved for a later time. Without another grunt, the great brute turned and disappeared back into the flush of trees.