Sequoia Coast outside, cold and ghosting out with jetlag

Ragged fur bounced along his shoulders, spiking messily in an assortment of places. Two molten orbs bobbed with the rhythm of his canter. The ghost followed behind as far as he dared himself. Her scent still hung on the breeze like a lazy perfume, drifting in and out of focus. Kierkegaard followed dutifully after, never wavering in his pace. Of course, he had never wavered before. As the two trekked along the shore, he found himself surprised that they had returned to the wilds at all. Then again, the ghost would have followed Caiaphas to the corner of the planet if that was where she had desired to travel. He could not imagine himself with another being; the pale brute could not have stomached the thought.

Large paws pressed into the sands as he traveled. Just as the coywolf faded from his line of sight, he picked his pace into a canter until he had slipped behind her no more than ten yards. The scent of a foreigner drifted on the wind, but he paid no mind. The mercenary plodded after the dark-hooded female as she made her way across the coast.