Ankyra Sound the horseman

The younger wolf began to spew hateful words toward Kierkegaard. The cussing did not go unnoticed, but the ashen brute did not seem to care very much at all. He assumed that he would deal with this one the way that he had with Signe all those years ago when she would grow tired and cry; he would let the youth wear themselves out and then release them. When at last, the thrashing had fallen to a heavy-breath still, the ghost peered down at the younger male and nodded his head a bit before removing his weight from Arrille's shoulders and taking two steps back to provide his own body with room enough that he could react, should the pale fellow try something again.

“You need to learn to control that temper, boy. It'll be the death of you some day,” the older wolf croaked with a frown. He had known the terrible flaws of feeding the fire within. If he approached everyone with the same demeanor, someone would take great offense to the brash words and rage-filled actions. In the end, Kierkegaard supposed that it didn't matter either way.