He had been making regular stops at the gorge to try and fish up something for the pups, and for the mothers, and for Scimitar; he hardly thought of his own hunger through all of this, and ate only when the need was most dire. Thus, the old man had become even more weathered by time and circumstance. His pelt hung raggedly from his body, tangled and disheveled where it wasn't matted. His face was gaunt, and he wore his age blatantly; the hollows of his cheeks was mirrored across his entire design like a fine sculpture: his hips and shoulders were butresses of stone, and the gap of his belly, the undulating tin of his ribcage, everything, worked together to make him seem like an ambling corpse. It was not far off, his death. But Njal persisted with all the charisma of a mad man; he had made a fresh hole that was a touch too big for any fish he had ever caught, and was searching the forest's debris for his catch, ready to deposit this new thing in to the ground for safe-keeping. Except that he had not been to the gorge today, he had not been in three whole days in fact, and what he searched for was an idle thought within his mind. Growing frustrated, he kicked a patch of new grass and soil back in to the hole, and grumpily returned to pacing across the terrain.
Scimitar witnessed the pace of the elderly man, not once considering it the rise of a senile mind that badgered at Njal. He was unable to come to terms with how he truly felt with the presence of the Sveijarn within his pack once more, but he could not deny that the silver man had made himself useful. Had the ember been with him, it was likely they would have been turned away from the Forest.
What had ever happened to Tuwawi, though?
Scimitar swallowed the thought, not once daring to speak it as he swept forward, his eyes studying his companion with mild scrutiny. "When I said that food should initially go to the mothers and children of the pack, I did not mean to infer you should have none," he murmured, his gaze drifting to study the loose fur of the man. His own form had thinned quite a bit -- his ribs beginning to gleam like a beacon against his side, and his pelt had become duller. They could not go on like this for much longer -- but they had long surpassed the time to pick up the pack and follow the herds.
When the gruff voice of Scimitar reached his ears, Njal pretended at first not to hear it. He understood them and readied a reply, but he didn't feel much like speaking. A long silence spanned between them. It was not hostile - maybe a little brooding, but not meant to offend. Likely just the somber attitude of an old man who was too tired to even think, let alone have a proper conversation.
He eventually cleared his throat, and shrugged one shoulder lazily; it popped as if to protest this strange movement. I have enough,
Njal murmured plainly, his voice nearly a sigh, hardly the stern timbre he once carried within himself. More will do me no good.
His golden gaze flit to Scimitar, and he watched him in return, but his eyes were soft and tired. The children are the future. They are important.
The implication there was pretty clear.
He remained silent as Njal spoke, his eyes drifting over the man with consideration. It worried him to see the man so withered in comparison to the Njal he had looked up to at the Creek -- at least, the Njal he had looked up to before Tuwawi's intents had become clear. He let the topic slide for the moment, wondering if he should seek his daughter out and encourage her t coax the man to eat more -- but perhaps he was right. Perhaps more would do him no good, and time was only implying their days were all numbered. "Are you settling in well enough?"
The two conversed for a short time only -- Scimitar remained cordial in his conversation, though closed.. though such was no surprise. He found little to trust in the Sveijarn, after the past, though was keen to bury old grudges and move forward in life. After a time, he would drift away from the man, allowing him some space to continue to settle in.