He knew to be weary of the coast, knew that a pack — the pack that Caiaphas had spoken of at the meeting lingered here like unwanted parasites but he wasn't afraid of them, and Stavanger Bay was clear of scent markings. Not that it would have done much to stop him; it had been his home once, long before these scum had taken up residence here; perhaps before they even had come to these Wilds. He didn't know if any truth rang in his thoughts or not, and frankly didn't care. He'd been busy lately, saying goodbyes to his family, with patrolling Saltwinter's borders and ensuring that it's caches were kept after that he had little time to swing by Ragnar's grave. For this, he felt bad. He had promised that he would make an effort to keep after it and he had made good on it but life had gotten in his way.

Easily, the young and scarred Loðbrok made his way towards the tallest ash tree in Stavanger Bay, making the trek through the thick ash woods. He'd done it many times, knew this territory so well once more that he could probably walk it in his sleep. Dusk had begun to fall when he'd set out and the velveteen dark of night was still in the cusp of it's youth, the moon his guidance of light, much softer on his monochromacy then the harsh light of the sun. These days, Kjalarr was all but nocturnal and he didn't particularly mind haunting the night. His steps slowed subconsciously as he approached, a mix of scents, some familiar but most of them foreign causing the hackles on the nape of his neck to bristle with unease. Without being sure why dread began to pool in his stomach like ice. 

At first, he couldn't quite make sense of the hole in the ground where the mighty Jarl's mound of grave had been. Slowly, the puzzle pieces began to click together in his head and he rushed towards it with a “No,” Wrenching itself from his lips, a harsh whisper drawn forth as he examined the grave before he dug, claws scraping against the hardened earth to no avail. Nothing remained of Ragnar's skeleton, the grave devoid of the legend it had once sheltered. The memorial his mother, he and Floki had worked so hard on. Would Ragnar care? Kjalarr didn't have an answer but the image of the phantom of his dreams, large, scarred to hell with an empty eye socket licking with fire flashed in his mind's eye. It didn't matter because he cared.

Anger swelled within his breast, hot and uncontrollable and he let out a loud snarl, though it did little to vent the rage he felt brewing under his skin. He let out another snarl and lashed out at the ash tree, claws slicing through the bark of the Yggdrasil doppelganger, scarring and consequentially marking the tree as a warning, wishing feverishly that it was the face of whom ever had done this to his father ...to his family. It would seem that with Ragnar's death the tales of their family, of their brutality had became nothing then that: tales. Kjalarr sought to remedy that. He would have blood for this, but first he had to deduce who was responsible for it.

He heard the steady rhythm of footfalls against the earth as his paw was in action against the ash tree, satisfied that it's hard bark gave way to the tree's flesh beneath the sharp strike of his claws, a physical evidence to his fury. He'd been holding so much in for so long, and it felt good to vent it out. It went beyond the blatant pissing on his family by digging up Ragnar's grave, and stealing (and gods knew what else) his skeleton. That was much of it, the final tipping scale on a shit mountain that had been gradually accumulating over time. This was just the push forward that he needed to fully accept what it meant to be a viking; a Loðbrok. Ragnar might no longer linger in the corporeal world, instead feasting and fighting in Valhalla but as Kjalarr looked to the Allfather Odinn to guide him, he would look to his father, as well. He could see neither but in the very figments of his dreams but that did not make their guidance any less useful to him.

The female ...no male? Kjalarr wasn't immediately sure and too caught up in the heat of his anger to much care. All he knew was someone had walked in on his venting process, and proceeded to jest about it. As if this were a laughing matter. He turned on her, quick, taking rapid breaths, head rising in a dominate posture, a low warning growl rumbling in his chest as he noted her eerie smile upon her face. This only served to annoy him further — which was not something the young Berserker needed at the moment. He had enough fuel for his fire without this rat brown stranger adding to it. “I'm in no mood for jests,” Kjalarr warned. Oh, he was in a mood alright. A mood that had him itching to tear the face off of something. Preferably one of the guilty but at this point anything within his reach was promptly fair game.

The monochrome colored woman, dappled by the shadows of the darkness and the silvery light of the moonlight — a varied scale of black, white and various shades of gray that Kjalarr could see lowered her head, and spoke once more in her strange accent though it was her words of not being the one responsible for his anger and that he should calm himself were the only words he paid attention to. His upper lip curled back from his teeth. “I don't know that,” He countered her with a lash of his tail. “You were close enough to hear me, weren't you?” He challenged her words, suspicious, but then realized he couldn't just run around accusing every wolf he came across. He sighed, and lifted his lip in discontent for a moment. “You don't understand. This grave was my father's. This Bay belonged to him.” Kjalarr told her whether she cared or not; this bay belongs to my family. “Someone has desecrated it and they will pay.” Ragnar may have been feasting and fighting in Valhalla, but all of Kjalarr's memories of the Jarl were borrowed memories: all of which Thistle had spoken to him when he'd eagerly asked about his enigmatic father.

“Couldn't have been long ago,” Kjalarr spoke in a contemplative tone, glimpsing down at the up-heaved dirt beneath his paws, kicking some of with a swipe of his front, left paw a low rumble vibrating through the chords of muscle in his throat, before his icy and silvery caribbean gaze lifted back up to the loner before him, content to study and to scrutinize. “My twin and I regularly came to tend to it.” In memory of their last father. Through the anger he felt still pulsing in his veins he realized there was an archaic and harsh sorrow that the one thing that Floki and him had decided to do together was useless now. Without Ragnar's grave there was nothing but the stupid ash tree that now had ugly lesions by his own doing in his venting; nothing worth tending to anymore; and perhaps nothing for them to reconcile with each other. Kjalarr hadn't wanted to cut Floki from his life, nor Wildfire, nor Thistle. Charon ...well Charon could fall off of Moonspear and impale himself and Kjalarr wouldn't give a rat's ass; but it was his other family that he hadn't sought to extract himself from. He'd hoped that he could spend time with them ...not anywhere near Moonspear. Kjalarr would never return there as long as Charon had it's reigns. 

“Don't be stupid,” Kjalarr snapped, with a stiff roll of his eyes. “You can't drink saltwater.” Did she know nothing of the sea? “Who said you could rest here? Why would you want to?” Kjalarr let out a low hiss, baring his teeth. “The great Jarl's soul is full of unrest and seeking vengeance. He will kill any who trespass in this territory. This bay remains his; just as he did when he walked among the living. Except now you won't see him coming,” Kjalarr's voice had dipped low, determined to set the eerie ambiance. The ash trees were ancient and as Thistle had said Ragnar had once claimed, Kjalarr, too, could feel the heartbeat of the Gods beneath the hard earth. It had seen the death of the greatest Jarl to ever live, but it had also seen the birth of his children — of Kjalarr himself. “Not until it's too late.” Of course this was a load of bullshit, a saga that he felt inspired to spin just as his ancestors and kin were very good at doing; but she didn't know that Ragnar was feasting and fighting in Valhalla and Kjalarr had no qualms about taking care to ensure that wolves avoided this territory, even though it was too late to salvage Ragnar's skeleton.

She was skeptical, and it was clear she'd never crossed paths with the living Ragnar Loðbrok whose physical appearance was gruesome and macabre enough to chill even the strongest of warriors to the bone — or so Thistle had told it. It did not occur to Kjalarr, whom did not remember what his father looked like (if he'd ever actually seen him), that perhaps it might have been a exaggeration to make his saga great, legendary even. “I'm serious,” Kjalarr insisted, his expression morphing into something that resembled deadpan, fixating her in an icy stare. She seemed determined to disregard his story, and although she was right, Kjalarr sincerely doubted Ragnar was going to haunt this place anytime soon for his time was otherwise occupied in Valhalla, Kjalarr was left to deal with the frustration that he could not keep her from her intended plans of sleeping within Stavanger Bay, nor that she seemed unable to take the hint beneath the whole “story”.

Fine. Then he would clarify for her. “So if a deceased, enraged Berserker doesn't scare you off, then let me ask you: what of a living one?” She could not stay here. It wasn't his home anymore, wasn't his territory but it had clearly meant something to his father, meant something to his mother. Thus, it meant something to him. “I'm telling you you can't stay here,” His voice dropped low, his lips curling back from his teeth: a clear sign of aggression. “Find somewhere else to dream of your captain,” He mocked her with a cruel sneer tugging at the edges of his lips. “Or you'll awake drowning in your own blood.” It was a promise more than it was a threat. The wound of his father's desecrated grave way way too fresh for Kjalarr to move on from it and he wasn't going to have it. He'd intended to stay the night in Stavanger Bay and he was not known for his willingness to share.

Kjalarr struggled to understand her words on her slur and accent but he got the gist of what she spoke, his upper lip curling back to expose the pearly white and sharp canines it had hid moments before: an show of aggression; a warning. He didn't care if she needed sleep. The truth was colder and harsher when he understood that he could chase her from these lands until she collapsed of exhaustion: or died of it ...if that was what it took. He gave a stiff flick of his tail, raising it ever so slightly over his back. This had been the home of his birth, his father's legacy and by all rights it belonged to Kjalarr. She cackled — though it was a mad sound to the viking — as she continued to ignore his threats. “Threats? No,” The favorite of the Allfather Odin spoke with a sly smirk tugging wickedly at the corners of his ruined muzzle. “Promises. If you return to these lands I will kill you.” And it was as simple as that. “Now get out.” The young Berserker snapped his teeth at her, a growl rumbling in the strong column of his throat as he ghosted forth: meant to ensure that he would make good on his promises if she did not vacate Stavanger Bay. If she left as she said then he would not follow her past the long since vanished border lines and would return to mind his own business.

Kjalarr gave a flick of his tail and a loud snort when she shouted over her shoulder about his “daddy problems” — whatever that meant. He had no issues with Ragnar; besides how could one have issues with their father when said father was dead? His lip curled at her once more as she turned and disappeared into the darkness. Kjalarr lingered deciding to be merciful and give her the benefit of the doubt ...but only for a measure of time. After about half an hour later he followed after her trail wanting to ascertain that she had, indeed, left Stavanger Bay. Only when he confirmed that she was gone did he return to the ruined grave, speaking a soft prayer to Odin before he poked around until he found the long since abandoned Jarl's den and shrugged through the overgrown shrubbery before he situated himself at it's far corner and settled in to rest during the day before he would set out, back to Ankyra Sound in the following dusk.