Blackbeak Bluff take the halves and call them brothers

The pallid creature drew nearer to him at his chuff, which she responded to with one of her own. Kjalarr watched her close with distance with caution, unable to recognize her and close enough (though there was a good distance between them and the borders) to his borders for him to be territorial. He did not claim the Blackbeak Buff, Firefly Ravine, Barrow Fields, Dragoncrest Cliffs, or The Tangle but as all territories bordered Ankyra Sound and acted as hunting grounds for the Saltwinter wolves he was, like his father in that respect, territorial over them all the same, especially close to his borders. The woman let out a laugh, perplexing to Kjalarr, and drew nearer to him. As if she knew him. Sadly, she brought with her no recognition, though he recognized the Norse word she greeted him in. Brother. His hackles rose and bristled along his spine, his lips curling back, his gaze watching her as she circled him, using his “dead” name. Jorunn. That boy had died a long time ago. He would have assumed that she had mistaken him for Floki — which happened frequently. Yet, she had greeted him by a name he had stopped using many, many months ago. The viking informed her unflinchingly, “I don't use that name anymore. It's Kjalarr, now.” The Nourisher. One of Odin's numerous names, bestowed to him by the phantom of his deceased father. He was suspicious, unable to draw the connection of who she was to him, those wires long since cut without hardly any memories to keep the connection there. “You called me brother, and yet I do not recognize you.” She knew his given name, and yet he still did not remember hers; presenting itself as a crux to him.