Blackfoot Forest Furling forests for the soft

“We will.” The words were both a comfort and a discontent to the ashen male. They had lived the vast majority of their lives on their own. Kierkegaard knew only the companionship of his sister. He did not imagine that it would be easy for them to be welcomed into the life of pack wolves. “I will look into them. If you would like, you can as well,” he said to her with a shrug of his broad shoulders. Really, he did not care what Moz chose to do. She was an independent creature, and he could not force her to actively seek anything that she did not desire. If she did want to find what the surrounding packs had to offer, however, he would not be against that. Either way, the ashen male would make it a point to search on his own. In the end, he would not make a decision without Moz. Without much more on the subject, the two siblings set out in search of food. Kierkegaard’s injury was nothing too terrible; it did not debilitate him so far that he could not stand to hunt for himself – or his sister – and it only seemed to trouble him with a small amount of pain after long hours on his feet. It would become worse in the days that followed. His pride would not allow him to admit that he – foolishly – ignored the pain, hoping it would disappear over time. As a lone wolf, he was more susceptible to injury than most. Their search for a pack would eventually turn to something of an urgent floundering. Trailing behind Moz like a ghost, Kierkegaard lowered his skull towards the earth and drew in the scents of the forest floor. His eyes were only focused on the path ahead. Small signs of a deer herd lingered there, but it seemed that it was a stale aroma. Their tracks had been washed by a day of rain. Obediently, the towering figure stayed close to the dark female ahead of him, allowing her to take the lead. Moz had always been the better hunter of the two. She was a marvel when on the path of prey.