Porcupine Ridge threshold

The silence that fell between the two wolves after his introduction was not abnormal. Kierkegaard was not so accustomed to being confined to small spaces with near-strangers. Granted, she seemed to be composed of the same soul. The sound of her name sounded similarly to the roots of his, though he did not know the language. She did not appear to be a wolf of many words. So, he watched her in silence, taking in her odd appearance with calculating eyes and a thin-lipped expression on his rugged face. She was unique; the color arrangement of her pelt suggested that alone, but it was really in the tapering of her features and the gaunt look of her ribcage that seemed to cause Kierke to wonder what had brought her to the Teekon area. She did not seem to be like the other wolves he had encountered. This was not a bad thing – not by his standards – but he was mildly surprised. “What were you doing before the storm?” Her voice shook him from his thoughts and he blinked at her once or twice before parting his lips to answer. “Wandering… I like the ridge,” he remarked, referring to the dangerous span of rocks where she had found him. “And you?” Kierkegaard then inquired politely. Her fear of the lightning and thunder did seem to make it odd that she would be travelling during a storm. Perhaps it had been her method of overcoming that mild fear. Then again, maybe she was in the wrong place at the wrong time and had merely been swept away by the tumbling rain and the wicked beams of light. The quiet thrumming of the rain overhead was peaceful to the ashen brute, and part of him wished that it would not end.