Ankyra Sound i'm not a hero but the fight is like a drug

The light of the fading day could not be seen in the dark cavern of The Grotto, though Kjalarr had moved through the main den that emptied down into the ceremonial chambers. Restless despite the sleep he had gotten all day, and tired. There was a fatigue in his bones that the young Jarl Berserker had not known before. There was no definitive reason for it, no reason that Kjalarr could recall as to why his body felt heavy. He had managed to scavenge what had been left of Ragnar's berserker mushrooms despite that now he was aware of what they could do. He transported them carefully and hid them well, he thought. Of course his mouth to move them to the rabbit fur he'd found in the abandoned den of the Jarl had come to be used ...perhaps this heaviness was an affect of it though he'd been careful not to ingest them; he'd learned his lesson the hard way the first time. Beyond the weariness of his own body, he was flushed with fever. Hot as his body felt in the deep caverns of The Grotto, he shivered. Probably a side effect of simply having the berserker mushrooms in his mouth even for such a short time as they'd been, he slowly came to realize.

Kjalarr moved towards the waters of the ceremonial chamber, thinking that perhaps a drink might help, pausing to lap at the clean water it provided for him, idly managing to wonder what precisely they used this ceremonial chamber for. He had never thought to ask, simply accepting it as it was, assuming that it was perhaps for something similar to the sacrifices and festivities his father had once held in Stavanger Bay. The air was thick to him, and he drew it in with a deep inhale letting it out just as deeply before he laid before the pool, tucking one foreleg under him, his head heavy as his eyelids lowered despite the fight that he put up with them.

In his dream, the ceremonial chamber had morphed and gave way to a place he had never seen before: a long chamber of gold (though he had no word for the color, not fully able to grasp the concept that he wasn't dreaming in black and white), with a feast of all spreads: pheasant, quail, deer, elk, moose, buffalo, fish ...a more magnificent feast he had never seen before. Around him there were many wolves, none of which he recognized, sharing their stories of conquest of all natures. It was jovial, the atmosphere electric as the mightiest of warriors feasted and shared their stories, all greater than the last.  Before him laid a flank of some sort of beast untouched. “Ragnar,” They called to him, summoning his attention. Ragnar? No, he was Kjalarr ...wasn't he? Yet, he did not speak to correct them for he was not sure what he could. “You have not shared your stories.” They wished to hear a story, did they? “My story is not finished yet, it is just beginning.” The words that spilled from Kjalarr's lips were accented, soft, perhaps even coy, his expression enigmatic as he studied the warriors that in turn studied him. Kjalarr recognized the voice deep in the marrow of his bones even if he had heard it but very few times in his life, that he could not actively recall it.

He awoke with a start, a small gasp tearing from betwixt his lips, blinking his eyes at the pool of light gray liquid, blinking in disorientation. It took him a moment to realize where he was, unable to remember where he'd wandered to fall asleep. Slowly, his leg moved from under him, unaware of how long he'd been slumbering. It felt like a lifetime though in reality it had only been little more than an hour, perhaps. The dream made no visible sense to Kjalarr but even as he rose to his paws and stretched and attempted to shake it, he could not. It had been a long time since he had dreamed like that: so vivid and of Ragnar ...though never before had he ever dreamed of being Ragnar. It meant something, it had to for the nagging in the back of his mind pushed him towards discovering what. Yet, that was not how it worked. It's purpose was something that he would discover only in time.

Groggy though he was Kjalarr made his way to the mouth of The Grotto, the cool night air rushing to greet him, to pepper a cool and lingering kiss against the flushed flesh beneath his fur of platinum silver. A soft sigh of relief left the viking, as he welcomed it and the bask of the moon's sweet beams. Yes, fresh air, and perhaps a patrol would be just what he needed.

Not Afraid to Die by Written By Wolves