Ankyra Sound sheepskin

The slick-furred rodent found his tongue and Kierkegaard regarded him with the same lackluster expression that he had upon first arrival. He was not impressed that the whelp could leap from his snapping jaws; was the boy expecting him to applaud the agility behind his spindly limbs? Then, the lashing of his tongue fell against the ashen guardian and he snickered openly, spreading his dark lips to reveal aged and yellow fangs. It didn’t matter if Vigilante liked the backside of a bison’s ass, Kierkegaard would not allow him to step one foot beyond where he had stood without suffering severely. Just as the pup was rearing himself for battle, he seemed to have caught wind of Wylla. Before action could be taken, Vigilante fled from their borders with nothing more than a childish and empty vow. The mercenary watched him until he had faded from sight and then fixed his gaze on the leader of the sound.

Wylla had suffered wounds of some kind. His molten gaze roamed her figure with a hint of moderate concern and he positioned himself so that he sat lower than she, with his tail tucked close to his frame. “I could be missing three of my legs and that runt wouldn’t have touched me,” he assured her with a dismissive splaying of a single ear regarding the stranger at their borders. It was then that she mentioned Caiaphas’ state; she had not been silent about her struggles through pregnancy. Though he would never admit it, her cold snap and wicked gaze had been his primary reason for stepping out of the grotto to patrol the borders. With Wylla waiting on his answer, Kierkegaard felt it best to respond with honesty, and he offered her a respectful, “yes.” If there were ever a real reason for her state, he supposed that he would be it.

Still holding his posture well beneath her own, the ragged old hound peered at her wounds with a quiet interest before he inquired, “who did this to you?” It was not as though he was pleased with the injuries to her body. It seemed that the ghost was intent on returning the favor, if he could. While he had not found much peace in Grimnismal, the old brute admired the smaller numbers and the ideals of a sharp family to hold their ground. He did not see that he could have much in common with their young leader, but he would still have fought against those who caused her harm.