Sawtooth Spire there is no hourglass, only sand

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“Mhm,” Kjalarr offers her as she repeats his poetic words back to him. It is the simplest way he has to describe what Sawtooth means to him without getting into his culture and religion. He believes it to be a convergence where the power and presence of the Norse gods linger. Sacrosanct. A holy place. Ragnar’s holy places had been Ravensblood Forest and then Stavanger Bay but Kjalarr was not his father and he has begun to learn that birthright means little to the Æsir. Just because his father discovered the Bay did not mean that Kjalarr was destined to return there to claim it. It was a hard lesson to learn, to shake off the thought that lands are congenital: a belief that has long since been ingrained within his mind. He watches as she picks up her paw and draws it across the dirt as she speaks, a movement he takes to be coy. Curious as it is not a gesture he has seen before and it’s meaning escapes him. The woman admits then about a hare that escapes her, musing that it must feel safe here and the grin that the scarred northman offers her is nothing short of predatory. “It is not safe here.” Sawtooth Spire was a harsh territory meant only for the most hardy creatures and hares are prey animals that Kjalarr has always seen as frail.

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