Wapun Meadow 고기를 먹고 싶어 샤샤샤

The inky female did not seem as though she fit into their surroundings. The scent on her pelt was reminiscent of the time that Kierkegaard had spent on the shore so that he could be near to Caiaphas. Seeing the wispy hybrid so near to his own pack was an oddity when she carried the scents of the ocean. The ashen brute was not one to press, though, and he swiftly tucked the thoughts away for a later time. As they stood, it appeared as though the stranger could not speak to him in the same voice that he was capable of. For a moment, he found a shred of sympathy in his heart, but it soon vanished with the premise that she did not have to endure the prolonged conversations with uninteresting parties. The ghost had seen his fair share of many, and he was not eager to think of the others he would be subject to. Though he had traveled a great distance in his life, the pallid brute could not recall having come across another beast so peculiar. There was relief in her presence; should he not wish to speak, he did not have to. But he did feel – for the first time in his life – that he should say something.
 
From the back of her throat, there rose a wispy purr that struck the air a way a birdsong would. Drawing the length of his ears forward to capture the sound, Kierkegaard blinked softly. It was not a sound that he was familiar with, and so he could not register it to any particular emotion. Instead, he darted his vision to the remains of the hare and frowned; it could have been used to stock the cache within the pack. The very idea of the wolves of the thick wood brought a twist into his gut. The pale brute could not understand how he had come to detest them so. They were all so false, and he could not take the sight of their complacent submission any longer. Kierkegaard had cooped himself up inside of the pack since his arrival, and the soul of a vagabond was humming inside of him once more. He could not remain inside the forest forever. The world beyond was far more breathtaking than anything he had seen inside of the Rosings pack.
 
Motioning with his muzzle, the ghost prompted the woman to follow him as they walked. If he could put a great deal of distance between himself and the borders that held his scent, perhaps he would not wish to return to the thick tangle of trees. The company of the mute was welcome in spite of his own reclusive nature. She did not bombard him with numerous questions, and she was not a reminder of his past. There was something about it that made her pure. He could not have described it if it was asked of him, but the pale beast found her being to be warming and welcome. Kierkegaard had never felt it before, but it was a strange level of comfort that had settled in his tired bones.
 
As the haggard brute continued to trek away from the forest, he did not stop to explain why he had come from within the pack. Surely, she was curious to know how he had taken her rabbit if it had crossed the border into the wood, but he was not in the mood to speak of his claim. It had been a poor decision, and the vicious ghost regretted it. The longer that he called Rosings his home, the harder it was for him to stand as a true leader for the wolves. He did not care for them. He would have allowed them all to die if it had come to that. It was the art of war that he had been taught, and though there were many who frowned upon it, their opinions did not stir him. Finding his tired body more at ease outside of the pack, the pale mercenary turned his attention on the halfling once more. “I am Kierkegaard, but I suppose you cannot offer your own name,” his voice struck the air with a weary breath, and though his words still rumbled in his chest… he sounded tired.
 
“You are like a night sky. Nathimmel.” And though she was certain to have received many monikers from those she met, this would be what he would call her.