Blackfoot Forest I think you are the moon

It had not been the ghost’s intention to fit in with the wolves of Rosings. He had not wanted to melt into their pot of sweet demeanors and loving natures. There had been nothing but transparency in the brute since he had arrived on their lands and stolen their leader’s seat on the throne. Kierkegaard had spoken honestly with them, counting tales of starvation and the famine having eaten away at him. They did not care. In a world of justice, they cared only that he saw what was right and wrong, but they could not think past their own snouts to understand that if he had been a vigilant and just wolf, he would have perished out there on his own. So their opinions did not matter to him, and they would not matter in the days to come.
 
The guess – or observation – that tumbled from the pale woman’s lips was correct, and so she was met with a grunting confirmation from the man. Usurper – that would be his title forever. But it was not the first time he had taken the rules of a pack and shattered them in a single swoop. The self-serving beast was something of an anomaly in those lands, whether he had realized it or not.
 
The smaller woman then went on to introduce herself as Lilith. He blinked once or twice upon her dainty figure and nodded his head. “I am Kierkegaard. How long have you been in these woods?” the ghost offered his own name and then inquired in the same breath. He did not wish to waste his words, for they were very rarely offered to those he did not know well enough. The sharpness of her gaze was enough to allow him to venture only slightly from his typical path. Perhaps she could be of use to him, and then again… perhaps he could have been of use to her.