Emberwood of mice

It was only a matter of time. The deer trail that Kierkegaard had followed deep into the woods seemed like it was a well-cut path. He could not have assumed that he would make it through its entirety without coming across another. Cutting his gaze upwards, the ashen male noted the dark figure of another male headed in the opposite direction. His steady gait was cut to a stop, and he lifted his head upwards, regarding the stranger with a composed expression. Already, Kierkegaard could scent the heavy lingering aroma of a pack on this wolf, but he noted that it was not a pack that existed in the surrounding territories. A frown creased his dark lips, and his ears erected at the sound of the male speaking. “Morning.” That it was. Though, the ashen wolf assumed that this dark stranger had issued it as a greeting. Kierke lifted his head upwards just slightly higher than it had sat a moment before, and squinted at the swarthy wolf. He was not a socialite, and so after a moment of observation, Kierkegaard simply nodded his head once to the newcomer and then moved to continue along his way.