Porcupine Ridge threshold

This charcoal-coated stranger seemed to be considerably distressed at the flash of lightning. Kierkegaard was not bothered by this; the natural phenomenon was known to wreak havoc on both land and against creatures. There were far more shameful things to be frightened of. Once they had both taken shelter underneath the rocky overhang, the two wolves shuddered the water from their pelt, and stood in a moment of silence. It seemed that neither of them were good with social situations. Kierkegaard was not opposed to the silence. It was a comfort zone for him. He had never been good with civil interaction. He was not so societally crippled that he could not muddle his way through a decent conversation, but he was not always comfortable with it. Still, if he and this anxious stranger were stuck together until the passing of the storm, he would have to do his best to be somewhat amiable. “I’m Caiaphas.” Another flash of lightning streaked across the heavens, causing her to shudder. Kierkegaard glanced at her with a slightly sympathetic expression. “Kierkegaard,” he then returned in introduction, his voice a low rumble.