Blackfoot Forest run

The female spoke of loyalties, and Kierkegaard found a strange sense of anger that rose within him at the idea of the wolves rejecting him simply because he was not pleasant and endearing like their previous ruler had been. He was a survivor; a savage and feral beast who had lasted as many years as he had simply because he had been willing to do what others had not. Claiming the rank of Alpha had been a necessary decision; the ghost would have perished in the wasteland of the wilds had he turned away from the opportunity that had presented itself. His figure had already begun to regain strength and life. The pallid wanderer would thrive again, and he would do so with or without the help of the Rosings wolves.
 
“Your failure would mean my own,” he insisted. “I did not come here on a whim. I came to survive. If I should run this pack into the earth, it would mean my own failure.” There was truth in what he had to say. This woman could accept it or she could cast it aside as falsity. Though he did not understand a logical thought process that consisted of him risking life and limb to claim land only to sink it and then abandon it. They all thought him a brute, and though they were not entirely wrong, they also seemed to think him a foolish man. Were he so doltish, he certainly would not have lasted as long as he had.
 
The unknown she-wolf then spoke of foolishness and he cocked his ears forward in a surprising snap. The knitting of his brows seemed to soften somewhat, but his dark lips still curved downward in a quiet frown. She had used the term bullied and he found it childish to call it such. The ghost was an opportunist and a survivor… nothing more. “And are you being bullied, girl?” he implored with a single quirked brow and a questioning expression. Was he so frightening and awful that she felt she was being attacked by his mere presence? If so, she had further issues to worry about. He was not the vilest thing in the wood.