Emberwood of mice

The inky stranger seemed to close the distance between them in a few strides. The ring-tailed creature was still bellowing in protest from its perch in the tree. Kierkegaard had already grown tired of the incessant noise. Flattening his lengthy ears atop his skull, he flicked his gaze towards the other wolf. It turned out that the shadowy male had not intended to use the raccoon as food. With a frown, Kierke glanced up once more towards the small bandit before taking several long steps away from the base of the tree. His only hope in doing this would be so that the small creature would cease the perpetual crying. Looking to Peregrine, Kierkegaard bobbed his head in response to what the sooty wolf had said. Had he possessed a stronger sense of humor, he would have caught on to the joke that had only managed to fly over his head. Instead, he focused on the introduction that had been presented to him. “I am Kierkegaard,” he returned slowly, ears twitching atop his head. There was a long pause before he opened his mouth once more. “You belong to a pack.” It was more of an observation that could have gone unspoken. However, the ashen loner was difficult when it came to forming basic sentences that would be deemed appropriate. “Is it located near here?”