this old dark machine

The question that fell from her lips was to ask if he was from around there. He peered at her curiously, a stern expression on his features, before he shook his head. “No,” his voice was gruff, straightforward. Kierkegaard was not the type to fluster with too many words. She had inquired, and he had answered. He did find it a common question from the wolves of the Teekon wilderness, though. Perhaps it was a form of politeness to inquire as to whether a stranger was a native or if they originated somewhere else. Either way, the ashen brute found it bizarre that he would be asked the same question so many different times. Kierkegaard did not look like he belonged there, in those lands. He was a massive creature, broad in shoulder, with a long frame and thick muscle. His fur was wild and unkempt. It stood tall along his shoulders and spine, aiding in making him seem much larger than he was. It was a marvel that the wolves still bothered to ask of his origins.