Blackbeak Bluff bon temps

There was something about the way that she flipped between mentalities that amused the great ash-coated creature. He watched as she switched to an indignant argument, staring at him with bright blue eyes and a puffed chest. Something in her was trying to reclaim what she had been told when she was younger. Before long, the girl was spouting words of dragons and how dragons – of course – had spines. Kierkegaard regarded her with a skeptical scowl that clouded his features and cast an unflattering light on the burning embers of his eyes. He stood as a startling contrast to the youth in her form, but he held his own well and he was not afraid of a child with a dragon-complex.

It was obvious that the ghost was not moved by her words. He furrowed his brow tightly over his gaze and shook his head before his dark lips curled in a cold smirk and he quirked a brow upwards at her. “Where is your mother now, girl?” he inquired in a rumbling baritone. His voice sounded far more sinister than he had intended, but he was not one to take back his word. The ghostly male rarely spoke to such strangers, so he saw no reason to rescind his question.