Duck Lake a queen i am, but my throne is made of burned bones

If he had been another man, the ghost would have found the disbanding of Seageda to be a melancholy thought. Life had taught him that the rise and fall of packs was commonplace; he had taken part in many of the wars that were fought to disband another group. Thurin was a comrade, and he had been very aware of the meaning behind her home, but it was not a subject that he would do well to dwell upon. If the ghost was permitted to speak of it more thoroughly, he would have taken the form of an apathetic brute… and this was not flattering for either of them. Instead, he listened as she spoke of a new claim within the wilds. His lengthy ears drew forward and he canted his head to the left with a bemused expression.
 
“Drageda,” he repeated with a ghost of a smirk on his dark lips. When the dark warrior went on to inquire of his whereabouts, the pallid brute breathed a sigh. Kierkegaard knew that his time was drawing in to a close on the Rosings pack. “There’s a wood,” he pointed his inky nose in the direction of the forest, “where I have usurped their leader and claimed his rank. I do not wish to remain there for long, though.” The wolves of that forest were meek and he did not want his figure to walk beside them.