Blackfoot Forest I think you are the moon

The ghostly man had done well to keep himself out of the sights of the other wolves. He had made his name and his face known to the female who also had leadership over the pack. She had not been a welcoming woman, but she had seemed to understand his intentions and the necessity of his actions; this was something. The others were certainly brewing something in the quiet of the woods. He could smell the dissension that clung to their bodies. He did not know if they were truly aligned in an attempt to de-throne him, or if there were some who did not mind his presence in their ranks. Surely, he would find trouble if he did not make himself known.
 
Drawing his figure through the tangle of trees and foliage, the ash-coated beast found himself marveling at how dense the forest truly was. It could be used to his advantage if at all necessary, but it did cause a nervousness to rile in his gut. They knew those lands far better than he – Kierkegaard had spent a majority of his time on the coast in attempts to remain close to Caiaphas. The ink-faced halfling was the only creature he had grown fond of.
 
Padding carefully, the brute caught a scent that was entirely unfamiliar to him. His fiery gaze shifted as he caught sight of a pale figure in the light that filtered through the leaves. Quietly, the beast followed her for a moment as she appeared to be searching. After several long seconds, he stepped through the brush and lifted his skull upwards.