Herbalists' Cache i've got a taste for blood

He’s unaware of the baggage on Ghost’s shoulders—just as the other is unaware of his own. Yet there is unity in the way they sit together, shoulder to shoulder, on this crisp, snowy night. The softened edges across the typically sharp features is responded with lifted eyebrows, champagne eyes widening a fraction in their place—
Hey, he mimics. An odd sensation settles in his stomach; part of him wants to laugh, and question what the fuck they’re doing. He doesn’t get it.  Ghost probably doesn’t either. Further pulled off from the dreary tone, he leans his bulk towards the silver coywolf, purposefully allowing his weight to fall enough in an attempt to squish—yet just a touch gentle in his own uncharacteristic way that he doesn’t suffocate.