Ankyra Sound one gonna help me talk right, one gonna lay me down to sleep

Almost immediately, Kierkegaard regretted his decision. It seemed that opening himself and exposing such a tender emotion had broken down the dam, and the dark-furred young male was gushing out without much of an intent to stop. With each stumble over his own words, the ashen brute cringed and the edges of his mouth twitched downward. It had not been something that he would anticipate, but having had the situation thrust upon him, he wondered how he ought to approach it. For most things, Kierkegaard lacked all of the social graces that were necessary for dealing with even a modicum of conversation. He stood for a long moment with a tired expression before he could muster a response.

“You ought to figure that out,” he grunted in a tone that was more than habitual, but a deeply ingrained part of the ragged beast's makings. As if it were an after thought, Kierke furrowed his brow over his glinting optics and peered curiously at the darker male. “How old are you, boy?” he then inquired. The way he talked, Kierkegaard would not have put even a year on the young wolf's life, but he had been wrong before. The younger ones were as mysterious as the ocean to a creature like him. He feared he'd never truly understand them.