Ankyra Sound You and I

Kjalarr knew that he should be making haste towards Neverwinter to inform them of Whittier's death — Tori messed up his timeline oops — but he was still struggling to wrap his mind around it, to accept it despite that there was little left of the fact to accept. Whittier had gone to the the Æsir and he was not coming back. Though his adopted brother did not share in his faith Kjalarr had to believe that he had went somewhere, that life after death was not a void for those who did not believe in the Nordic faith as he did. Admittedly, Kjalarr could not claim to be the zealot that his father had been but at times Kjalarr felt the Gods and sometimes even caught glimpses of Hugin and Munin as they made their rounds through the seven realms, collecting information and taking it back to Allfather. Even so, he busied himself with patrols and hunts, trying to work up the courage that he knew it would take to be the bearer of that news. In truth, it was best that it was he to do it.

A scent tickled his leathery nostrils and Kjalarr paused, drinking in the scent deeply, judging that it's owner was near. He followed it with raised hackles and tail held high over his back in a show of dominance, scarred muzzle wrinkling in warning as his lips lifted to expose his teeth at the female that just sat there, staring in. She had not called, and appeared to give an impatient fidget or two, even as he approached the scene. “Why do you sit idle at our borders?” The viking demanded, suspicious of why she hadn't simply howled for a leader.