Weeks ago Bonechewers had been perceived as a threat to both Donnelaith and Saltwinter, yet it felt that shortly after Caiaphas, Vlad and him had ventured to the pack that ruled The Sentinels none of them had seen hide nor hair of these coast wolves. Still, Kjalarr had warned Floki of them all the same when they'd spoken on the beach of Stavanger Bay, though the scents as Kjalarr had crossed the sands of Cerulean Cape and Sea Lion Shores had been so waned they nearly ceased to exist. It was innate curiosity that drew the viking out in the cover of the velveteen darkness — though it offered him no camouflage as his platinum silver fur stood out like a sore thumb by the light of the moon — knowing that if he was to go on this potentially dangerous venture he needed to be able to be on equal footing in regards to his sight. Monochromacy didn't bear any difference in the dark of night, when they were finally matched and though his hearing and nose were his best allies he also wanted a fair chance with sight as well just in case. As a creature who perpetually lived in a spectrum of black and white and the grey in between the dark did not scare him; nor did a band of wolves. After all, he'd fought a bear so in theory what was a wolf? In the spirit of the traditional sagas Kjalarr did not often mention that he hadn't actually slain any bears; but that didn't make for a good story.

He'd ventured across the Totoka River and followed the sand bar that would take him across to the Wheeling Gull isle, stepping into the shallows of the water. He sniffed at the air not scenting any wolves at all, and when he did the scent was faint. Too faint to be considered anything substantial pack wise. Yet he needed to investigate further before he could conclude that they were gone for good. With that in mind he headed up on the shore, shook his coat free of the salt water that soaked his legs and belly before he ventured up the sandy slopes of the beach, cautious all the same.

Kjalarr caught Maude's scent before her figure became easily discernible from the sand made pale by the generosity of the large moon. It was bright tonight but not too bright that Kjalarr found it a bother as he found the sun more often than not. A scowl immediately took to the viking's lips and a low huff of lazily concealed annoyance left his lips. Just because Maude was apart of Saltwinter didn't make her any less of an nuisance to Kjalarr. The bonus was he had rank on her — rank that he wasn't afraid to use. “What do you want?” The viking demanded fixing her in a piercing stare, tail lashing behind him once before he padded to her side. “I'm busy.” He snapped before he brushed past her, his destination the shadows of the forest; wondering if she might take the hint and leave him alone ...but he doubted it and thus did not readily hold his breath for it, excepting her to follow him simply because it seemed like something she'd do; despite that he didn't know her very well at all.

For a moment Kjalarr struggled to understand her, her accent butchering her words in ways that the viking was struggling to comprehend which words they were meant to be. His face, Kjalarr thought (hoped?), did not betray his struggle except for the slight wrinkle of his scarred muzzle as he puzzled out her odd and accented way of speaking to try to discern what she was telling him. “guði ofangreindar” Kjalarr cursed in a low mutter under his breath, favoring Norse in the hopes that it might conceal his frustration by using a language he hoped she didn't know, though whether his frustration was as evident as his annoyance was not for him to decide. Thistle had taught him as much as she could of Ragnar's native tongue but Kjalarr wasn't the world's most patient student when it had come to language (evident enough, I think, by his lack of patience currently?, haha). “No offense,” Kjalarr's teeth clicked together menacingly. “but I'm going to check things out, just to be sure.” Which loosely translated to if she cared anything for the wolves she'd once ran with she had better hope that all of them were smart enough to disperse from the Isle, because if he found them? Well, they were fair game. They'd attacked Caiaphas and that wasn't something Kjalarr took lightly. They shouldn't get to run free from their crimes committed against Saltwinter's sovereign. 

Her body moved closer to his and he snapped his teeth at her, his gesture aggressive. Kjalarr had no doubt that she was quite enjoying this and couldn't help but wonder how much she'd enjoy it when he finally had enough of her teasing and put her into her place with his teeth at her throat. That he would do with great pleasure. For now, he reigned control of his temper with a flick of his ear, as if she were an annoying fly he was warding away. “We'll see,” Kjalarr drew, unconvinced, with a roll of his eyes before he shrugged into the treeline, pausing to sniff at the ground. The scents were fading and it appeared as if the Isle was, truly, abandoned by the wolves that once lived here. Still, they were only at the outer rim of the territory: there were many places yet that any of her past “crew” could be hiding out.

“I have a name,” The Viking spoke to her, voice soft but loud enough that it would carry back to her, his words carefully chosen. “you will call me Kjalarr or nothing at all.” He was growing tired of her insults ...although he couldn't claim there was any truth behind her “endearment” of calling him 'daddy's boy'. He barely remembered Ragnar: he only knew the man through the stories he'd gotten Thistle to tell him and from his völva dreams; but in truth the man behind the legend that was his father was very much a mystery to Kjalarr. Yet, as of the moment, Kjalarr didn't harbor the patience to correct her. Nor did he think he really wanted her to know. He was beginning to learn that assumptions were sometimes better ...and aided causes ...better than the truth. He was sorely tempted to turn around and pin her to the dirt riddled with sand beneath their paws as he led them deeper into the wilds of the Isle, to skim her throat with his teeth to prove that he would make good on his promise. That it had not been an empty threat, but for the sake of “comradeship” (if it could even be called that) he made a visible effort to “be good”.

“Don't worry,” The northman cooed, inclining his head to peer at her from the corner of his eye though she was little more than a shadow against the other shadows. “you are making it very tempting.” He side-stepped a tree he was gaining upon, pausing only briefly to sniff at it's trunk before he licked his chops and pushed forth, letting out a low rumble of discontent. Even further inland the scents were faded. He suspected that she was speaking the truth: the wolves that had once claimed this land were long gone but he would never be satisfied with speculation.

She tested out his name, butchering it with her heavy accent and Kjalarr attempted and failed to stifle his annoyance at her, letting out an miffed huff, the muscles beneath his shoulders tensing as he kept pushing forward. “Kah-ya-lah-arr.” He repeated his name, sounding it out for her so she, he hoped, didn't continue to mispronounce it. It wasn't her fault that dream Ragnar had given him a hard name to say, but it was more suiting that Jorunn had ever been, and Tevinter had been a place holder as he struggled to find his identity. Kjalarr had felt so natural that if he wouldn't have known better he might have allowed himself to think that it was his name given at birth. Except some family still called him Jorunn and others called him Tevinter, reminding him of both pieces of the jagged puzzle that was the Viking's past.

“Maybe I'll just call you pest, hmm?” He spared her a quick side glance from the corner of his eye before his head whipped back so that he was facing his chosen path. It wasn't very fair that he ask her to call him by his name while he refused to address her as her given name ...but somehow, Kjalarr managed to convince himself of it's fairness, even if there was nothing fair to be found in it. Still, he tucked the name Maude into the recesses of his mind, in case he needed it. 

“Do you think they would have left anything useful to us behind?” Kjalarr asked her next, not wanting to out right admit that she was right: so much so that he went to painful lengths to avoid it. “Any caches they might not have emptied or the like?” Kjalarr waited for her response and when it came he begrudgingly allowed her to take the lead, the pair collecting what scraps they could to take back to Saltwinter.