Ankyra Sound rule number four, gotta be lookin' pure

The ghost had spent a vast majority of his time wandering the borders of their newfound pack. The leadership was strong, and he was not afraid to pledge himself to their cause. He had fought alongside much worse in his time. So much had changed for the ashen figure that he had come to feel more than content with Grimnismal and with Wylla. He had known that Caiaphas loved her home – the Sound – and he had no qualms with her decision to remain there. Kierkegaard had grown old, and in his age he had softened his resolve to fight. This did not warp his eremetic lifestyle; he would always prefer solitude over the clamor of others. The wolves of the coast had proven to be compatible companions.

The call to the border drew his lengthy ears upward and the ghostly figure frowned. He waited a moment before turning his direction to the stranger. Upon arrival, his molten gaze lingered on a reddish figure. Once he caught sight of her eyes, his dark lips turned downward and he drew his head up. Approaching at a steady saunter, Kierkegaard regarded her with a quick nod. “What brings you to the borders?” the ashen ghost inquired in a rumbling tone.