Kjalarr, despite his recent stoke of the outrider (scout, now) fire he'd long since extinguished, had stayed within Saltwinter's claimed territory, venturing out only when he got the itch — or subsequently when he was summoned. Typically the viking did not venture north but rather stuck to the southern and western reaches of territories, partially because of his ingrained draw of Stavanger Bay among the fact that the Frostfur's inhabited Neverwinter Forest. He'd never ventured north of Ankyra Sound before and so he braved the day — albeit it was with a lot of squinting — and took to the Dragoncrest Cliffs. His purpose was of nothing particular other then to explore which wasn't overly specific. He loped easily along the shore, long legs splashing through the cold salt water, rather un-bothered by it.

It was the weighted sigh that drew the northman's attention and his leisure stroll through the surf ceased, stilling as the water continued to beat against his legs. His ears swiveled atop his skull, determined to find the origin of the sigh, for he wasn't half so creative to have imagined it. His hackles of platinum silver bristled in caution and alarm as he canted his head ever so slightly to the side in a very Ragnar bird like manner. “Hello?” The Scandinavian called out, his voice mimicking Ragnar's softened voice and accent of his dreams, caribbean eyes starbursted with silver scanning the landscape around him …not that it was going to do him much good. 

There was a rustling sound, hear above the lulling roar of the ocean — that which was never truly quiet but easy for Kjalarr who had lived portions of his life beside it to tune out. His head snapped in her direction, and accordingly he squinted having a hard time deciphering her from the dry grasses she was camouflaged in. For a second, he was annoyed. Not at her, but at himself. If she were a enemy he'd lose any advantage he might have had because he struggled to decipher her grayscale silhouette from the moving gray grasses. It was his own fault because he'd taken to the darker hours: dusk, dawn and night to ease the struggle of sight. At nightfall he was on a level playing field with everything else around him. In the light of day, no doubt made worse by his avoidance of sunlight if he could help it, he was at the disadvantage. Yet, he'd learned so very long ago to not let it show. He wore a bravado of a mask, determined to ask like there was nothing wrong with him. Few knew of his condition, and Kjalarr knew he wanted it to stay that way.

He ghosted towards the grasses, enough that he could distinguish her from the grasses that swayed around her. She was still pretty camouflaged but he could see her easier now. His muzzle lifted in the air slightly as he assessed her by her scent, canting his head to the side when he was finished. “Are you hunting?” He inquired her, though he had not scented any prey near them. “Or are you hiding?” He added. In truth, it wasn't any of his business but he was an innately curious creature, for better or for worse.

“How do you not know? Kjalarr was skeptical, if only because the fact that she, apparently, didn't know whether she was hiding or hunting was something that the viking considered very strange. Alas, he was amused — for whatever that was worth. “No one claims these lands,” Kjalarr murmured in a “I figured” manner, giving her a skeptic appraisal once more. “These shores are not safe,” He offered, wondering what had drawn her here. Though he hadn't heard anything more about the mysterious Bonechewers that did not mean they ceased to be a threat. Besides, they were not the only threat upon this coast, if he was being honest with himself. 

Black, leathery nostrils flared as he inhaled her scent, determining that she was apart of a pack but he did not recognize which. This did not surprise him, however. New packs were cropping up like weeds — a pestilence that he wouldn't mind chasing (or harassing) from Saltwinter's hunting grounds. Alas, that was not his decision to make. “I'm Kjalarr.” He offered her simply, just because it felt the socially acceptable thing to do; and though he found her a tad strange he was curious.

Kjalarr had not warned her of the dangers the coast harbored out of the kindness of his heart, it was true, if he dared to look deep enough (he did not) it was probably more selfish than it was anything else. He felt the weight of the packs cropping up all over the places, competing with Saltwinter for resources, and he wasn't going to have some wanderer — regardless of which new pack she was apart of — making their life ten times harder. Every mouth that took food from these shores and the surrounding territories was putting him and the motley crew of Saltwinter in danger. Though, perhaps Kjalarr should not have concerned himself so much with it, for it was Caiaphas in charge, he felt responsible to worry about it to as a loyal subordinate of her's. He was a contributing member of Saltwinter and it was his problem to. She offered her name flatly. Octavia. He tucked it away for later reference but offered her no spoken word, reveling in the silence that had moved to feel the void of words between them.

Octavia broke it, however, and Kjalarr's scarred muzzle lifted in silent contemplation as she surmised of it's quietude. “It is calm, today,” Kjalarr reiterated in a musing tone, letting out a soft exhale of breath from his black, leathery nostrils, salmon pink tongue sliding across his chops for a brief moment. “but it is not always so. Sometimes Jörmungandr is angry and the sea is feral.” There was great power hidden in the calming laps of the waves upon the shore — something that Kjalarr knew from first hand experience and he had not even been swept out to sea during a storm (and personally hopes he never finds out what that's like). For a moment, Kjalarr lost himself in the tales of the sea serpent, replaying his mother's re-telling of Ragnar's stories of Thor and the sea serpent and how in Ragnarok they would battle.

These thoughts were broken with her what appeared to him to be a random outburst: announcing her pregnancy, yet, curiously she did not seem thrilled about it as he expected mothers to be. For a second his thoughts flashed to Freyja and felt a relief that he wasn't sexually mature and would not be hearing those words spoken to him, caused by him, any time soon. “And you are not happy about it?” For what other conclusion could the young Ragnar prodigy come to?

Kjalarr couldn't help but feel like he was out of his depth as the walls around Octavia appeared to come crashing down the moment she had collapsed before him. Her tone was solemn as she responded to his question with a no, only further reiterating her unhappiness by informing him that she'd never wanted it. Kjalarr was silent, but he was attentive. He could not entirely sympathize with her, of course, but he understood the fun part. The difference was: his body wasn't mature enough to produce children and his fun had truly — or so he believed anyway — been harmless. It made him think to Ragnar: wondering if any of his flings or wives had ever been in a very similar situation to Octavia. He didn't know because Ragnar had probably never said anything to Thistle. Kjalarr's experiences were limited to dreams and experiences of his parents told through stories. 

At first, the northman hesitated unsure what to say — or if he had any advice to offer her. He was just a year old (or about to be very soon) and all he could do was to take her emotions and try to find a solution by attempting to place himself in her paws, by running the scenarios on what he might do. “Then don't do it,” Kjalarr spoke softly, breaking his previous and contemplative silence. “you might not carry them to full term,” A miscarriage in and of itself was possible, he was pretty sure. “y'know in my culture a child has nine days for the parents to decide if they want to keep it. During this time it is lawful and morally acceptable to decide you aren't ready and let them to die.” It sounded cruel when Thistle had told him this ...but it didn't feel cruel leaving his lips now. During those first nine days the children could also be killed by members of the pack and nothing could be done as punishment against them. Kjalarr would have liked to believe that Ragnar would have never let that happen ...but he might have. It was their ways, it was the way of Odin (who also ate naughty children).

“It is ok,” The berseker murmured soothingly. “it's ok to be scared, it's ok to not want it.” No one ever said you had to be overjoyed about expecting. Kjalarr (at the current point and time in his life) was certain he would never have children; wasn't sure that he ever wanted any. “I can't tell you want to do, Octavia, but I can tell you that you need to put your own happiness first because no one else will. If he doesn't make you happy: leave. If the children don't make you happy: give them up.” For someone as selfish as Kjalarr this was easy to put into action; but he was cut from a much harsher mold, born of an archaic fire that burned with a ruthlessness that matched Ragnar's own.

His advice was as barbaric as his culture was claimed to be by those who knew of it but did not understand it; perhaps they were heathens in this respect. Yet, it was what their Gods had deemed long ago and it was the basis for their laws. Kjalarr understood that his morals did not align with that of many, though this had not come apparent until quite recently. Yet, Octavia's sobs had begun to slow and she appeared to be contemplating what he offered her. He doubted it would probably go over well with the father of the children she carried, unless, he too was a viking — but this was as much her choice as it was her lover's; and Kjalarr wasn't about to apologize for the out he'd given her. A different perspective from his culture. 

“Others will make you put their happiness first,” Kjalarr knew this first hand all too well. “and sometimes choices are hard but you have to do what's right for you.” His own choices to pursue his happiness had (almost?) entirely cut him off from his biological family; but Kjalarr felt no guilt. After all, Ragnar had done worse; and it seemed that Kjalarr was fated to walk a similar path to his father's own. Building something from nothing and giving awful advice, pls stop Kja. “Besides, your leaders might not even give you the choice of keeping the children, if it wasn't supposed to happen.” Kjalarr offered another possibility, entirely unaware that, that wasn't the case with Octavia.

She seemed, to Kjalarr, to be a bit of a mess but for all he knew this sort of behavior was the norm for women who were pregnant...especially women who didn't want the children. Though his evening shared with Freyja had been fun as she had described her night Kjalarr couldn't help but feeling that he was inherently glad that he'd dodged this particular bullet. The goddess would not return to him with ill news of bearing his children and that in, and of itself, was simply, perhaps, luck that he was too young. “Probably,” Kjalarr agreed with her when she mumbled about going back home. In truth: he'd given her the out, the only advice the young Loðbrok was capable of giving her given how out of depth he truly was, never mind how barbaric it had been; and as cruel as it no doubt was: he didn't want to deal with this any longer. 

He was not a beast made for handling tears, apparently.

Kjalarr did not offer her any parting words as she made her way past him, heading back to her home he presumed. He had not asked her because he had not cared and turned to watch her departure before he licked his chops once, yawned and loped back towards the borders of Saltwinter, thinking that something from one of the pack's caches was calling his name.