Kjalarr's travels had taken him south of Ankyra Sound, cutting across the Sunspire mountains as if he were heading to Neverwinter Forest but the northman did not venture so far. He had recently caught up with the Frostfur's and thus did not see the need to make excessive trips. Kjalarr told himself that the less time he spent there, perhaps the less trouble Charon might potentially be for them. Charon had no real reason to pick a fight with them but Kjalarr was not above putting anything past the [s]child king[/i] alpha male of Moonspear. He was not sure what his intentions were, other than to breach out and stretch his legs outside of Ankyra Sound and Stavanger Bay. He considered poking around Ravensblood Forest, remembering that his mother had spoken that Ragnar had once sought to claim it as his own before forcing the matter of leading his wolves south instead at the impending threat of a too close neighboring pack. 

Instead, Kjalarr found himself veering off, south of Ravensblood and into a territory he'd come to know as Blacktail Deer Plateau. A pack had once resided here but any and all traces of their existence beyond the abandoned dens that littered the dark pine and silver birch trees was gone, worn away with their absence. He could no longer hear the call of the sea in the distance, far too inland than he was used to, admittedly. He had not realized until he joined the ranks of Saltwinter how much he had truly missed the ocean with all it's wonders and it's hidden power. A force of nature, Kjalarr had been told (and believed), unlike any other.

Caught up in his thoughts, the viking did not immediately realize that he was not as alone as he'd first assumed. It was not until he'd looped back around and caught onto her scent trail that his lack of solitude hit him and jarred him from his absent thoughts. He did not see her at first, her shadow draped form blending in all too well with the monochrome backdrop of the colorless world Kjalarr saw in; but he could smell her and further more he could hear each steady breath she took, the slight and subconscious shift of weight. Cautiously, the young berserker crept forth ceasing his motions only when he was able to discern her from the world around her and let out a low chuff of greeting, or to at least (hopefully) alert her to his presence for she seemed as lost in her thoughts as he'd been mere moments ago.

Kjalarr watched, stoic, as she moved nearer to him closing the distance that had once been strung between them; though she was sure to leave a respectful distance between them. The scarred northman took a moment to study her, noting that she was coated in all ebony; nothing particularly uncommon about her. She returned his previous greeting with a nod of her head and an aversion of her eyes. It was a sign of respect, one that was often extended to a superior though and not between two strangers. Regardless Kjalarr accepted it with a slight swell of contentment in his chest. It was hard for him to discern what age she might be but if he had to guess they were of a similar one...though unlike his father that seemed to have a great penchant for women younger than him, Kjalarr seemed to be opposite and divulged in women older than him. With age came experience, they claimed, and he had not left Freyja disappointed; not that he truly had any other experiences to compare it to, mind.

“I could ask the same of you,” Kjalarr inquired with a slight mimic of Ragnar's accent and the perfected coy smirk tugging at the edges of his lips, complete in his father's mannerisms with a bird-like cant of his head. It was clear that the viking was teasing her (or so he thought he'd made it clear enough anyhow). “I am exploring,” The Scandinavian offered simply, albeit truthfully.

Kjalarr had long since gotten used to the curious stares, mostly aimed at the ugly scars that cut across his otherwise handsome face and otherwise relatively untarnished appearance. They were the only scars  he bore and though their origin was born of his own idiocy and desire to prove that he was something more than what everyone saw him as. Only Charon had ever inquired as to how he had gotten them but it was not a story the young viking was ashamed of. He'd went toe to toe with a bear and survived to tell the tale — not once but twice. Clearly, this meant he was the favorite of Odin just as his father before him had been, Thistle had told him. 

She mirrored his movements, his posture — the curious tilt of his head, the wicked little simper that had tugged at the edges of his lips — and this was curious to the northman; though sometimes he recognized quite well, perhaps. His actions were more subconscious than they were anything else but during the times it was brought to his attention he realized that ever since his dream of Ragnar — where he'd been Ragnar — Kjalarr found him mimicking the actions his father done, even so far as to mimic his accent. “Guess?” The Scandinavian capitalized upon, speaking his inquiry aloud. “If you are not exploring, then what are you doing?” The question was spoken softly; uncharacteristic for the once (extremely) loudmouthed Loðbrok.

Kjalarr was a lot of things but unobservant had never been one of them: while she studied him the viking returned the favor, analyzing her body language, as mimicking of his own as it was there was a difference, a small twitch of her tail in what he perceived to be interest. Whether it was interest in him or interest in their conversation Kjalarr could not yet deduce but he was willing enough to rise to the challenge of unraveling what was, currently, a mystery to him. It was arrogant to assume that he knew everything just because he'd spent time with Freyja — shared some heated looks and sensual touches (and perhaps more but it's still ongoing so Tori doesn't want to assume). He knew that though he had some experience that he would perhaps not be so oblivious to advances in the future; and otherwise would not be such a novice. If her interest in him was in that way he couldn't tell from the few seconds they'd been conversing but he was observing, nevertheless. Curious, as always.

“Oh?” Kjalarr inquired as she explained that she needed some time away and space. “What is troubling you?” Could he claim that he truly cared? No, not really. He collected information simply because knowledge was power. No one had ever discouraged his natural ambition and hearing Thistle's stories about Ragnar (at Kjalarr's unrelenting demand, mind) only helped to inspire Kjalarr where ...perhaps, if one were to ask his biological family now, it had been the wrong idea to do. He hadn't meant to become obsessed with his father's culture, the Gods ...and the man himself but it had happened nevertheless and Kjalarr worked tirelessly to maintain Odin's favor and not only live up to but exceed Ragnar's own legacy. He would do better.

“Kjalarr,” The viking spoke on a soft, knavish purl. “And what is yours?” The more he mimicked dream Ragnar's accent the easier it was for him to maintain. Practice made perfect, it would seem.

Sage. It was a strange name to the northman whose siblings all bore Nordic names as their father before them, as their family line dictated. Kjalarr had never wondered if Thistle had ever had any say in their names, because from what he'd seen of Ragnar in his dreams and of the stories he had managed to wrangle from his mother before his abrupt departure from Moonspear the elder Loðbrok did not strike Kjalarr as the type to care. It had appeared to be very much “Ragnar's way or the highway” and though he was torn between thinking that surely that was the only way to accomplish anything in life (clearly) and thinking that one wolf wasn't always right and their way wasn't always the right way. Nevertheless who was he to challenge what had clearly worked for his father? 

When she divulged her issue to him it took all of Kjalarr's will power not to roll his eyes at her. He managed to keep a stoic mask upon his face, though it was a bit of a struggle to avoid the scoff that built within his throat. If you can't take the position then why do you have it? It sounded like the exact problem he didn't want to hear. He wanted nothing more than to be a leader — ever since he was old enough to scream and prance around he'd always taken on the role of “leader” and had often asserted his dominance over his littermates, even refusing to share food with them until he was caught. Her complaining about a privilege only served as an unwanted reminder of his (many) issues with Floki and Charon. “I do not know what you want me to say,” Kjalarr spoke simply, gaze locking upon her dark form. “You are a leader and you have a responsibility to the pack and it's wolves, and they will demand most of your time. That is the price for leading them,” Kjalarr offered a simple roll of his broad shoulders in a shrug.

“If it is your freedom you value most then you should step down.” He spoke honestly, not bothering to conceal how he really felt; because what was the point? She hadn't directly asked for his opinion (or blunt advice) but if she was fishing for sympathy from Kjalarr she would find herself horrendously disappointed and empty handed.

To Kjalarr's complete surprise it seemed Sage did not appear to take any offense to his brutal opinion and instead managed to turn it into motivation. She agreed with him! “I know,” He responded simply with the tease of a wicked smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, scrunching the ruined flesh of his muzzle slightly with the pull of the muscles. He wasn't typically the arrogant type, at least where the “i'm always right” arrogance came into play that was, but he couldn't see where he'd been wrong. Then again, hearing someone complain about giving a position of power and honor, about the privilege they were trusted with left Kjalarr with a bitter and metallic taste to linger in his mouth. Hearing her whine and pity herself and seek sympathy (from the worse wolf she could have, mind) only had served to dredge up unwanted grudges and bitterness. He'd been harsh with her but it worked.

“I know it can be trying and frustrating at times but that is the faith that your subordinates put in you and you should never betray that.” Doubting herself was doing them a dishonor, as far as Kjalarr was concerned. With his lecture over he offered her a slight rise and fall of his shoulders.

At her question, in regards to if he'd ever considered becoming a counselor Kjalarr almost let out a bark of a laugh — though as it was a soft chuckle rumbled in his throat. The idea, in and of itself, seemed extremely preposterous if because when he thought counselor he thought decidedly of an elder. A wolf with much more experience and wisdom than what Kjalarr assumed he held. Perhaps it was his connection with the Allfather, or the fact that tragic events of his life had pushed him to mature much faster than he should have, but he did, at times, feel like he was older than almost one year of age. He did not admit this to her, however. “I do not think I am old enough,” Nor had he lived much life to be able to assist with issues. Her issues had been easy enough for him to compartmentalize and to offer her his harsh and unyielding opinions on simply because he was ambitious, and this allowed him to offer her a different perspective than her own.

“I am ambitious and have no patience for leaders who do not appreciate what they have been given,” He offered with a rise and fall of his broad shoulders. “In fact, I have no patience for leaders who act like their subordinates owe them everything and treat said subordinates like shit just because they don't worship them, either. But that's a grievance for another day; I simply do not fear backlash for speaking my mind.” All of those things together simply made him useful in her situation, that was all.

For whatever reason his words had given Sage the motivation she had needed to return to her wolves and her rank though whether she kept to it or not Kjalarr could not say. It wasn't any of his concern, anyway. She said her goodbyes to him but the viking was stoic and did not give any sort of verbal response to her. She turned after she'd gotten a few feet from him to look at him over her shoulder, Kjalarr saw, and his shoulders rolled in a casual shrug. “Perhaps. Only the Gods truly know what's in store for us.” It was his belief that their Fates were determined by the Gods, and whether their paths would cross again or not was not up to him. He watched her vanish, presumably in the direction of her pack, before he turned and headed back to Saltwinter.