Blackfoot Forest Sturm Und Drang

The ashen brute’s humor was often misplaced; he happened to find himself in situations that did not warrant the sarcastic chuckles that tumbled from his dark lips. He did, however, think that it was necessary to allow himself a moment to find the humor where it shouldn’t be. The confusion on the woman’s face was more than understandable, but his explanation had cleared it for her well enough without the ghost having to speak further on the subject.
 
There was an air of arrogance in the way he spoke, and the way that he allowed Pallas to go on about allowing the wolves of Rosings to simply be reckless. Kierkegaard did not believe that they would pose much of a threat at all, which was why he so openly wished for the grizzled woman to speak the thoughts that sat in her mind. “Yes,” he concurred with her, eyes sparking somewhat. “I do not think you will have much issue, Pallas, but if you should need a hand, simply call and my fangs will be extended to you as well. I could not ask you to fight for me without returning the gesture.” As savage a creature as he was, he was not entirely unjust in his requests. More than this, the ghost was not a king who sat upon his throne. He was a fighter for those around him, and he would defend the woman with his life if it was called for.