Blackfoot Forest patient is the night

Pallas had been good to him; she had done well to accomplish what he had asked of her, and though she had not been as successful in her attempt to dethrone one of the Rosings wolves, the pale woman still stood by her word of keeping guard over the ashen brute. Kierkegaard’s pelt still pricked nervously as she trekked through their dense home. Although he had claimed the leadership for himself, he did not feel as though the woods were his home. He was a stranger in a very strange land, surrounded by others who did not wish to see him there. The great ghost knew that his time was drawing near and he would not be allowed to relish in the position he had fought to obtain.
 
Stepping through the brush, the pallid brute shook the loose leaves and branches from the thick of his ragged pelt and heaved a heavy sigh. The moon glistened overhead; it was not full, but it did shine just enough to dapple the floor of the wood in a pale glow that danced with each passing breeze. Nights had kept him moving and awake, listening to the sounds of their strange home as the creatures within buzzed like a quiet hymn.