Sequoia Coast and between offering and banquet, we devoured the gods

The more that he listened, the deeper his confusion became. The brute frowned and shook his head to signify that he was at a loss. It seemed that there had been more trouble being stirred than he was aware of, but he had spent a good amount of time bobbing for sea urchins after his spill. A burning knife of frustration sunk deep into his chest, and Kierkegaard sighed. “I’m getting older,” he remarked to her in a rumbling tone. He needn’t explain it; the proof was written in the ragged shape of his frame, and the jutting of his dingy coat. Even the mercenary’s eyes were glossed over. “Don’t know much about what trouble the kids were causing, and I don’t really care,” he then offered her, and his tone was genuine enough to suggest that there was no trickery behind them. With a shrug of his shoulders, the ghost fixed his gaze on the dark woman and drew in her scent; she was in her heat. He wondered faintly what it would mean for her pack, if she had wanted to continue her legacy in the form of her own children. A reminder pulled him from her and to his pups and Caiaphas.

“We’ve got a young scrap of fire leading the sound. I don’t know much about her, but she’s got a sharp tongue,” he explained with a displeased expression. It wasn’t that he had never found a fondness for women with fire in their guts, but that she was so young and brash. Kierkegaard did not know how he had landed himself in such a predicament, but he had remained because of the sea witch in the grotto. “Don’t know anything about this captive situation, or where the boy is – seems he’s made a habit of running away. If I see him, I’ll send word.” Of course, he did not anticipate that he would ever see Arrille again. If he did, Kierkegaard had no qualms with handing the boy over to the Heda.