Blackfoot Forest Furling forests for the soft

Watching with a careful gaze as Moz leapt gracefully out of the way of his force, using the pressure he had applied on her to straighten the situation out, his lips curled into a ghost of a smile. They had spent their lives together. Every year that had passed had given them more of a chance to know each other. Their blood was the same. Kierkegaard was not surprised that she was able to avoid his thunderous reaction… he would have been disappointed had she not. “You are not above being mistaken for food,” her words fell against his lengthy ears and a smirk took hold of his features. With a quiet chuff, the ashen male shook his head and frowned thoughtfully. “Hmm,” he grunted in response. Kierkegaard was a man of few words. He spoke only when he had a reason to… only when he had something to say. He believed that words were often wasted. Still, Moz would be used to his quiet responses and his noncommittal grunts in reply to her – often witty – remarks. Their dynamic was a strange one, at best. Tilting his head forward, her teeth brushed against the length of his ear, and he pressed forward to nudge beneath her muzzle in return. Then, roaming across her features, he blinked slowly before following with the question that had been on his mind for a day or more. “Where have you been?”