Boartusk Heights broad-shouldered beast

There was a simple optimism in the way that the stranger spoke. Such an outlook had never once crossed Kierkegaard’s mind. Not in his years of travel. He had known those of uplifting spirit to unrelenting in their enthusiasm for what was to come. The Sairensu male knew only of reality. Kierkegaard knew that life was hard and that there couldn’t be much to change such a thing. Since birth, it was a fight to rise and simply tend to one’s own being. Wolves were creatures who thrived when thrown together. Their packs were a bond. The ghostly brute had never felt such a desire. His bond was to his body and mind. He forged makeshift oaths with a small handful of others, but he knew that if it were necessary, he would only tend to himself.
 
Drawing his ears forward, the silent ashen creature caught the parting words of his temporary companion. He would not return the wish of luck on the royal-eyed wolf. Instead, he quietly watched the other male pick his way down from their perch and disappear before setting out again on his own. He wondered for a moment how many stragglers would survive the starvation.