Ravensblood Forest fire blood

I get carried away sometimes. My apologies D:

It had not been trauma that had turned the pale brute introvert, but a solitary life. Companionship had never been desired save for a small few. He found detachment to be the easiest choice. It allowed for the loss of very little and meant that he did not yearn for anything he did not need. It was a minimalistic life but he had lived it and survived through it, and though it was despairing, Kierkegaard did not know better. Emotion had never sustained him; at least not until recently. Having found himself dealing with sentiment and fervor, the pale ghost had become more despondent. He had not been taught to react to feeling, merely instinct, and now that these questions were upon him, he did not know how to address them.
 
Turning his attention back to the white woman, he noted that she seemed relieved that he was not a mute. It was peculiar that the rose-colored female would admit to such a thing. With a placid expression on his ragged face, Kierkegaard watched the stranger make herself more comfortable by taking a seat. He did not join her, but remained standing.
 
“Hmm, you may have been better off with a mute,” he remarked with a small smirk before it vanished from his lips and he returned stone-faced. A rare moment of witticism from the rangy male before he turned his head away from her and looked to the forest. A sigh fell from his nostrils and he faced the dark-eyed woman once more. Kierkegaard was not a conversationalist. The strange woman very well may have been better off with a mute for companionship.