Ravensblood Forest fire blood

He watched her curiously observe his features. Following her eyes as they trailed the length of his frame and the ragged state of his pelt. When she had completed her visual search of his being, she settled back to his face. Tilting his ashen skull to the left, his lips curled downward leaving him with an aberrant expression on his face.
 
While she had taken the time to observe, Kierkegaard had breathed deeply to establish she did not belong to a nearby pack. He had hoped, due to the heavy brackish water scent that clung to her pelt, that she might have belonged to Caiaphas. She did not carry the tang of pack life on her pelt. The white woman was just as alone as the Sairensu man. But it did not make her any less unusual. The close proximity that had been made allowed for the ashen ghost to breathe in the scent of berries on her coat. Glancing back to her muzzle, he realized that may very well have been what was causing the lush crimson coloration. He did not understand why, nor did he take the time to inquire. It was in that moment that she parted her lips to speak, asking if he was capable of talking.
 
Fixing her with a steady stare, Kierkegaard bobbed his head once. “I can,” he drawled in a rumbling baritone. “Sporadically,” he then added with a sigh. It happened that the ghostly figure did not always believe words were the most beneficial way of communication. Body language could speak novels.