Ravensblood Forest fire blood

Tragedy had a way of changing that which it came in contact with. Life was fickle and hard, and it crafted with it some great and terrible things. A difficult past could meld the personality of the crimson-soaked female. Something that would have devoured a beast of lesser mettle. She very well could have been destined to witness the hardships that she had. But the pale brute did not gather much of his faith to put it on fate or destiny. He regarded the strange happenings in life and attributed them to chaotic control. The universe thrived from it. It bent and changed with that chaos. So would the beings that existed within. 

The white woman made a remark on her own sanity and the prospect of speaking with a mute in the dark parts of the wild wood. Kierkegaard did not opt to respond. He merely cast her a look that was neither please nor dissatisfied. A small silence filled the air between them. For a moment or two until she parted her lips once more and inquired his name. Exhaling a deep sigh, the ghostly male flickered his gaze back to her and frowned softly. What did it truly matter if they shared callings? Was it a necessity to divulge his own identity to the peculiar woman in the wood? Probably not. He would have gotten along fine without stopping to even converse with the dark-eyed stranger. Still, he had a feeling she would not cease unless he shared more than a noncommittal grunt and a monosyllabic reply. 

"Kierkegaard," he answered her with a flick of his ears and furrowed brows. Absently, the ragged beast did not even think to inquire about her name. Instead, his gaze drifted back to the trees and the slight movements that were made in the patchy undergrowth.