wrath

Nah, it's okay! Fighting pack wolves is how Kierke gets his jollies. <3

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The answer that came from the pale-furred creature’s mouth was enough to make Kierkegaard laugh. The smoke-colored ghost dropped his muzzle towards the water where he stood – protecting his neck – and his dark lips drew upwards into a ghastly smile. He would not be afraid of this dismal, woebegone, tragedy of a wolf. He did not have to be. Kierkegaard had regained a good majority of his strength, and though his hock had not fully healed, he was just as limber as he had been before the injury. After all, it was the arrogance of pack wolves that had caused him to attain the bite marks on the ankle of his hind leg. It did not perturb him to think that he would risk another at the cost of striking fear into a presumptuous fool. He had healed from the first; the second would be no different.
“Make me,” his voice was a rumble, slipping passed his lips like thunder. The expression on his pallid face was – perhaps – impossible to read, though his dark mouth still quivered and his yellow teeth clicked. He had forgotten the frigid water at his feet. He had all but abandoned the chilling pain that it had caused his injury. He’d held himself in the depths of the creek long enough that it acted more to numb him than to pain him. All the more to Kierkegaard’s advantage.