Blackbeak Bluff bon temps

It seemed that the young dark girl had grown some sound legs. She argued that his position and his frightening nature had placed her in a precarious spot. This did not settle well with Kierkegaard. His brow furrowed roughly over his burning gaze and he snorted at her in contempt. Still, she seemed to find herself on a set of wobbly limbs that had granted her a better position than he had been in before. The ghostly figure watched her with a scowl, still not moving from his rigid-legged standstill. His head was canted just slightly to the right, and a single ear was swiveled off to the side. The fear that was lingering in her pores had invaded his nostrils. The ghostly figure continued to watch her.

“I haven't done a damn thing to make you scared of me,” he grunted with a cold frown. “You'd best learn the difference between a real threat,” he took another step toward her and lifted his skull upward, gesturing toward the bluff and the severe drop, “and the one that's only in your head.” Of course he was referencing the dangers of the fall in comparison to his presence. So far, only the threat of the fall should have been enough to make her quiver, but the more she tested Kierkegaard's patience, the more she would see the dangers in him.