Ankyra Sound deliverance

kja finds whittier's body an hour (or so) after this post — open to anybody!

 

The end of Kjalarr's patrol took him to enjoy a casual stroll along the beach. The sand was warm beneath his paws, the lull of the ocean comforting to the Loðbrok who had been born by it. At one time he had been ignorant of it's power, had even feared it after it had spit him out, barely alive onto this very beach: a sopping wet and gaunt child; but the Viking did not fear it as he once had. He respected it, yes, but he gave no further thought to the fact that it could take lives: that, in truth, he had been fortunate that it had spared him his. A silhouette became visible among the froth and gentle lap of waves, a scent drenched in salt water but familiar: as familiar to Kjalarr as his own. Whittier. At first, the Viking did not notice that anything was amiss. The monochromacy and distance blurred the finer details. “Come on Whit, it can't be that bad!” Kjalarr called out in jest to his brother. Whittier made no response, not even a flicker of his ear. “At least you didn't have to patrol with me.” Kjalarr grinned as he padded closer to his brother, believing that Whittier was simply pouting, playing like he had not heard Kjalarr.

He was good at the game, Kjalarr thought.

“Whit,” Kjalarr sighed, but as he drew nearer he became acutely aware that something was very wrong. The grin fell from his lips and his steps faltered. Dread pooled like ice in his stomach and adrenaline pulsed furiously through his veins. His brother did not draw breath, did not move. “Whittier?” Kjalarr pushed forth through the last mound of sand that divided them. “No, no, no,” Kjalarr nudged his brother's salt water drenched cheek, muttering the only word his brain could think of over and over like a mantra: as if it were the only word he remembered. The waves lapped around them, having pushed his body up onto the shore. “Whittier!” Kjalarr snarled at the corpse as grief struck hold of his heart and he harshly bumped his muzzle against the Frostfur's own though this was futile. It elicted no response from the deceased Frostfur.

“Stay with me brother,” But Kjalarr knew, even in the depths of denial that gripped him now, he had lost Whittier before he'd even found him. A noise wretched itself from Kjalarr's chest: a sob, a snarl of heartache of losing a brother...one that he had sworn...had promised to protect. He had failed Whittier, he failed the Frostfur's. It was his fault for not making Whittier run the patrol with him, for if he had Kjalarr did not doubt that Whittier would still be alive. Grumbling and complaining, no doubt, but alive. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” Kjalarr murmured pathetically to his brother's corpse, already stiffened from death. Kjalarr sunk to the soft sand beneath them, his grief tearing through him like the blade of a sword, siphoning him of strength. He pressed his muzzle into the thick fur at Whittier's neck before it rose skyward and a wretched noise morphed in a mournful howl of pain and grief, tearing him asunder inside.

there was a noise that rendered the air; a noise caiaphas had never wished to hear. she froze from her demanding cuddling with @Lycaon, her spine chilled and hackles already flared in alarm. it was kjalarr --and already, her heart feared the worst.

the salt wretch dashed from the cave at a mad pace, breakneck and panicked. she saw kjalarr down the strand, his body hunched -- and despite the glare above a body was visible. caiaphas' ears pulled forth; had the famine claimed another of their fold? she slowed once she was within a few feet, though humbly kept her distance as she recognized the soggy form of whittier.

whittier; a wolf she had liked in an acquaintance way, but had not loved.

she did not feel grief -- but rather, a sad kind of weariness consumed her.

yet something else consumed her at that moment, and that was hunger. she eyed the stiff body subtly, wondering if it would be wise to return to whittier's form when kjalarr wasn't busy doing that inconvenient thing called mourning.

There was a sound of approaching footfalls through the shifting sands, detected over the gentle lull of the ocean constant as it was. It was hard for Kjalarr to believe that, for as calm as it seemed to him now, that it had taken Whittier's life, yet there was little doubt that it had. His brother bore no physical wounds that Kjalarr could immediately detect. Kjalarr's broad shoulders tensed and for a moment he did not acknowledge the wolf that had came except for a flick of an ear. A deep breath was taken — and he slowly rose to his paws, staring down at Whittier's body as he did so. Kjalarr swallowed thickly and cast a glance towards who had approached, somehow surprised and yet not to see that it was Caiaphas.

Part of him almost wished that she hadn't come. He did not want her to see him as he was now: vulnerable. The loss of a brother he had loved hit him hard, as did the knowledge that he would have to face Scimitar and break the news. Something that Kjalarr wondered if would be more upsetting because as Kjalarr was to understand it Scimitar and Whittier hadn't been on the best of terms. Whittier had been angry with Scimitar, at least. “I need to tell the Frostfurs about his death,” Kjalarr broke his silence, fixing Caiaphas in his gaze. “Neverwinter Forest isn't far, it will only take me a few days, at most to make the journey and back.”

Kjalarr looked down at Whittier's form once more with a sickened roll in his stomach, having gotten an inkling as to what would become of his brother's body. Kjalarr was hungry...and yet he would rather starve to death than eat his brother. A stranger (or enemy) was one thing — Kjalarr felt no remorse for that and would do it again in a heartbeat — but Whittier was a different matter entirely for him. He, however, could not begrudge them the meal, the nourishment. “If you will allow it I will leave soon to inform them. This news isn't something I wish to sit upon.” Besides, Kjalarr did not particularly wish to be present while they feasted upon his brother's flesh. Perhaps that would make him appear weak to them but at the moment Kjalarr's pride was dissolved and without hubris to fuel him he found that in the moment he didn't care.

the siren queen was too fixated on the chance of a meal to possibly scorn kjalarr for possessing feelings -- and if she had not had been so hungry, perhaps she would have even consoled the lodbrok. as it was, she was not particularly touchy-feely -- while she understood the beta's need to alert his family she did not share the same conviction. inwardly she wished to say to hell with all those that weren't saltwinter -- but kjalarr was just in his reasons and the saltwitch could not fault him. if anything she knew the journey would likely bring him some comfort, for there was often solace in miles. caiaphas drew her full attention to kjalarr and dipped her head in affirmation: "that is fine." came the reply, and without skipping a beat: "pay whatever respects you need to him now -- i do not advise coming back to him later." she did not need to say why.

last post for me and kja since i doubt he'd linger for too long. :o

Kjalarr was relieved when Caiaphas told him that his desire to let the Frostfurs know of Whittier's death was fine. He had not expected that he would be met with disapproval but the truth was if she would have bid him to stay, the Viking would have. Though, he was secretly glad that she was willing to let him make the journey. He would not have to linger while they dined on Whittier and he could focus his thoughts on what he was going to say. He had no experience with telling someone of a death, especially a life that Kjalarr himself also mourned. “I have paid them,” Kjalarr informed her and took a step back, his ears slicking back to his skull. In truth, he wasn't sure how to pay them given that Whittier did not believe in any after life as to his knowledge. It wasn't like it was anything they had talked about as children, for what child took their mortality seriously? Kjalarr had came close to death at least three times in his short life and yet it had made no true impact on him. With youth came arrogance. “I will make my peace when I speak to our father,” Kjalarr dreaded the idea even though he knew it was necessary, knew it was required. Out of courtesy and love, to bring him at peace with the truth. And when he came back he didn't want to speak of this, or specifically, of what would soon become of his brother's corpse. “Thank you.” His mournful tone laced with his gratitude towards her for allowing him what he wanted. What he, in truth, needed. He lingered only a few seconds longer to ensure that was nothing else Caiaphas wished to say to him before he turned and made his way towards the southern borders, deigned not to look back.

she nodded, understanding the urgence the pale viking possessed. all the same, she was hungry -- and she would not allow kjalarr to witness the terrible inscrutiny that was her hunger.

she dipped her savage muzzle and for a moment wished to extend her nose to his in a touching embrace of empathy -- but the emotion was shortlived and truncated. she held back, watching him leave. she would wait some time before moving, wishing to be certain he had departed the shore -- and then she would set to doing the terrible and unspeakable.