Ankyra Sound sheepskin

As the unnamed male provided a more detailed reasoning behind his choice in pack, Kierkegaard’s expression fell further. Though the drab younger creature held his posture, the ghost could hear the sharp tones that were used, and he was still vastly unimpressed with the other male. The gleam of his stare did not fade from the other’s face. The hair along his neck and shoulders rose with displeasure at the comments made and he took a step forward, feeling the ache in his limbs. His dark lips peeled over his canines and he snorted. Both of his ears splayed atop his crown, but he did not show that he felt any weakness despite the injuries that adorned his ragged figure. He had fought under far worse circumstances; the insolent tongue of the youth would never be a reason for the old man to let his guard fall.

At the boy’s last comment, the old mercenary snickered and shook his head in a mocking nature. “I don’t know you, boy,” he snapped in response. “I don’t have any reason to put you to work, or to put even a fraction of faith in you. You haven’t given me a reason to.” Drawing his tongue across the whiskers of his muzzle, the ghost drew his skull upward and regarded the other wolf with a cold glint in his eye. The ghost thought to call Wylla, but he wasn’t sure she would be impressed with the greasy little figure. He didn’t want to be the one to present him with what he’d offered so far.