Wapun Meadow 고기를 먹고 싶어 샤샤샤

While the ghostly figure had set out to trailing the borders of his pack, he found himself in a weary mindset. The forest was lush again, having come alive with the return of the foliage and subsequently the return of a vast majority of the prey animals. Kierkegaard had fed himself to strength once more, and had found that the twisting branches of Rosings did not suit him well enough. The brute had not anticipated that he would have found a home there – not forever – and he knew that his time was drawing to a close within their ranks. They were wolves who had built a culture unlike any he had ever taken part in, and he no longer wanted anything to do with them. Their minds could not be changed or molded, and even Pallas had fallen to one of the natives in her attempt to challenge rank.
 
Lengthy pale limbs carried him slowly along the borders, stopping every so often to mark the terrain with his scent and to listen for any signs of followers or passersby. The surroundings had been silent as of late, and so had the inner tangles of the pack. The wild wood had been alive with hushed whispers when he had first laid claim to their leader’s rank and pulled it from underneath him. They had spoken, he was certain, of rebellion and war. After some time, he had heard nothing.
 
Pallas had done well in her duty, and even the alpha female of the pack had seemed taken aback by the nature of the ghostly brute. He was, more than anything, a survivor of his time. He had taken what he needed, and since the food had returned to the wilds and the brute had begun to feet again, Kierkegaard was beginning to think that he no longer needed the woods. It was not in his nature to live among them, adopting their culture and their lifestyle; he was a man of force and thunder. His pallid form belonged to the jagged incline and drop of the cliffs. Every so often, when the woods were at their quietest, he found himself longing for the caverns by the sea. The dank seclusion was something he had not felt in quite some time.
 
A noise pulled the man from the inner workings of his mind, and his ears were thrusted forward at the sound of something crashing through the brush. Pebbles seemed to bounce and scatter from not too far away, and the brute’s nostrils flared with the scent of rabbit. Lowering his skull toward the earth and darting forward, he caught the creature just as it was attempting to insert itself into the thick of the trees. His grizzled maw parted and he clasped his fangs around the throat of the creature before shaking it violently to an end.
 
Turning his skull in the direction of the ocean-eyed shadow, the ghost huffed greatly through his nares and his tail lifted upwards. The creature before him was not full wolf, but painted in the blood of another breed – one he was not familiar with. The fire of his optics roamed over her smaller figure and his breathing evened in the time that it took to approach her. Though she seemed to have turned to depart – not wanting to risk the borders of the pack – he released a quiet chuff to pull her back in his direction. Brows were knitted tightly over his gaze as he crossed the marking for the pack and tossed the hare into the dirt unceremoniously.
 
The woods were alive with prey and the rabbit, though welcome to their caches, was not a necessity. This dark female was not claimed, though, and Kierkegaard knew better than most the trials of living without the ranks of a pack behind him. Though she was not skeletal in appearance, the famine could not have been easy on the hybrid. So the rabbit would be hers, if she would take it. The ragged man had more pressing needs than a small catch.