Blackfoot Forest I think you are the moon

When the pale woman turned to face him, the ghost was captured by the sharp yellow of her gaze. It reminded him of Caiaphas for a moment, and he found himself missing the dark-skulled female of the sea. Once he had found himself grounded, the brute allowed the woman before him to roam his figure with an intensity in her gaze. A polite smile had fallen across her features, but it was not returned by the ashen man; the ghost of a smile had not lingered on his leathery lips in quite some time. Instead, his ears cupped forward at the sound of her voice and he lifted his brows upwards only slightly at the remark that she had to make.
 
It was a safe assumption. Kierkegaard was a haggard and ragged creature of the cliffs; he did not belong to the soft life of the Rosings wolves. Still, he eyed her for a moment longer, gritting his teeth against each other. “You are not wrong,” he rumbled in a quiet baritone. His voice cracked softly as it struck the air, weaker from lack of use. But she was not quite like the wolves of Rosings either, and yet she carried the scent on her coat. It was new, but still belonged to the woods. Instead of pointing this out, the ghost simply allowed the silence to stretch before them. He was not a man of words and oftentimes he inserted himself where he did not belong.