Ankyra Sound llosgi'r wrach a'i halen ei bedd

The cold air struck him as he exited the grotto, tousling the length of his quill-like pelt along neck and shoulders. The old man shuddered, huffing in the breeze as it filled his nostrils with brine and the saline breath of the sea. It was still odd to him.

The ashen ghost shook his pelt and stepped out further into the beach. The sound of waves beat against his ears as their violent touch met the sands on the shore. Kierkegaard’s whiskers twitched along his muzzle, noting a strange change in the air. Something had washed ashore not too far down the beach. It seemed to take each slap of water with a broken slosh. Still, it did not appear to be like the other items that had been pulled from the swell. This one had been alive - if not now, at some point - and so the ghostly mercenary picked his way toward it with a cold and watchful eye. Both ears were drawn forward, hackles bristling.

It was not until he had drawn closer that he heard the strangled gasp for air. The sound set a fire to Kierkegaard’s gut. His pace became lightning and he closed the remainder of the space between them with a thunderous growl and a flash of his yellowed fangs. The brute seemed to swell and grow. His intent was clear: trespassers would not be tolerated.