Blackbeak Bluff bon temps

“You look scary!”

Kierkegaard snorted with a ghostly smirk at this remark. He took one last step forward and lifted his crown upward to look down at her. The fire that lingered in his molten gaze should have been enough, but the fur rising along his neck and shoulders would positively solidify his threat. The mercenary swung his skull toward her in a sharp movement before he stopped, guarding his throat from any desperate attempt at an attack, and bore his glare into her. Though he had not often seen himself, Kierkegaard had – more than once – been told that he was a frightening figure. He did not understand how something could appear daunting without first having shown appropriate action.

It did not take long for the girl to begin spouting pleas of forgiveness. This was something that came as a surprise to the ash-coated sentry. His ears flattened to his head and the brute reared back a bit to frown deeply on the girl. It was evident that she had been raised as a polite and gingerly sort of being. It was a lifestyle that he would never understand. With a slightly curled lip, Kierkegaard straightened himself and looked fixedly at the young girl.

“You're spineless.”