Blackbeak Bluff bon temps

The dark young girl seemed to be startled by his presence. The wild-haired ghost watched her with a glint to his gaze and a scowl that lingered too long against his lips. His brows were furrowed into a knot over his eyes, but the pair of amber optics was trained on her features and would not be moved. The length of his ears was drawn forward and stiffened at the sound of her voice. He nearly gritted his teeth against the noise of her stammering and uncertainty. It was not until she managed a full sentence that he released the clench in his jaw and turned his gaze toward the bluff and the dramatic drop that would surely spell death to anyone who might miss it.

“Mmm,” he mused with a soft not – it was a grunt of agreement toward her obvious observation of the bluff. The next remark that fell from her lips seemed to strike him almost as a demand. Intrigued by it, Kierkegaard turned his skull toward her and frowned deeply. Somehow, his brow furrowed further and cast a looming shadow over his sharp eyes. “No,” the ghost grunted with a slightly curled lip. “You can simmer down. Shouldn't matter where I'm standing.”

The expression that followed dared her to challenge him.