Blackfoot Forest Furling forests for the soft

Darkness seemed to leak in around the edges of the wild wood. A cacophony of cries seemed to emit from the undergrowth and in the darkest boughs of the trees overhead. It was not easy to grow accustomed to the shrieks of foxes, however Kierkegaard had managed well enough. His lengthy strides carried him effortlessly through the tangle of brush and roots. His eyes darted to and fro, keeping a wary gaze on whatever else could emerge from the brushwood. There was a violent tremor from the thicket to his left, causing the hair along his neck to rise defensively. It was instinct that carried out his next movements. The scent of Moz could not be distinguished until she was nearly on top of him. Kierkegaard thrashed his head, snapping his teeth with a guttural growl. His legs kicked with far too much force in attempts to throw the intruder away from him, at least until he realized that the scent was familiar… Fixating his bright gaze on the dark figure in front of him, the ashen male let a huff fall from his nostrils and he flicked his ears forward. The fur along his neck and spine had still not lowered, but his heart had ceased all racing, and his fangs were no longer bared. “Moz,” he growled quietly, eyes darting towards hers. His expression was placid, if not agitated, and he swayed slightly where he stood. A strange fire had sparked in his gaze.