Blackfoot Forest A hundred jewels between teeth

The call struck his ears, and the ghostly figure raised his skull upward to determine the location of the female. She had been the first to come upon him after he had claimed the throne – ripped it from Aaron’s grasp. Minna, he recalled her name with a firm frown. Though her submission had been given to him in a forced nature, she had done well to provide him with the things he had asked, and Kierkegaard had found himself grateful. The summons was for prey, and the great brute found himself hungering at the thought of a meal.
 
The famine had been the factor that had drove the best into the territory that belonged to the Rosings wolves. He had been driven mad by the lack of food and had found – in his manic state – that his only means of survival would be to take a place in the pack. Had he been one to choose carefully, he would have made a challenge on the borders of a different location. Instead, he had only found himself in Rosings because of the scent of blood that had filtered through the air. Kierkegaard had come for the rabbit, but had taken the whole pot.
 
Drawing himself through the thick of the wood, the brute picked his steps carefully to avoid spooking the potential prey that had found its way into the lion’s den. Once he had caught sight of the familiar figure in the foliage, he slowed in behind her and peered at the deer through the brush. It had been a good call from the female. He drew his gaze to her and nodded his head in a manner of praise for the wolf.
 
Should others heed the call, they would be allowed to feast for the first time in over a month.