Night had begun to settle over the barren wasteland that had quickly become the Teekon Wilds, and in the comfort that the dark offered the Viking's monochromacy he had exited The Grotto and begun his routine evening patrols. The skeletal limbs, spindly and naked from the devastation of the swarm rattled against one another, scraping in a way that chilled Kjalarr to the bone. There was not much that the Northman could claim he was afraid of: not truly of death, per say, not since he believed as vehemently as his father before him that when he passed the valkyries would come to escort him to Odin's hall: Valhalla — but admittedly, starving to death was not one of his top priorities. Death in battle was the only true way for a Viking to go, not wasting away to nothing in the famine that wrought itself upon them. He hunted as often as he could, even turning to fishing despite that he wasn't a fan of what had probably became something of his staple as of late. Occasionally, he would make the trek to Coconut Grove to bring what feeble remains of coconuts he could but they, too, ceased to grow without the proper nourishment of their trees and while he did not think he'd picked the territory clean others had no doubt found it and dined upon the meat of the fruit-nut.

They all struggled and most of what he was able to catch went to the pack's caches, though he did not expect his meager findings to linger long. The pack that Caiaphas, James and him had went to had not delivered upon their side of the bargain and they crossed Kjalarr's mind often. Not because he cared about them in any capacity — but because they should be made to suffer at the tooth of Saltwinter for their incompetence and for ignoring the stake that Caiaphas had set; but besides attending to his duties as Beta, patrols and hunting Kjalarr had found that there was little time for anything else. Keeping Saltwinter as fed as he could manage was the most important, but also it didn't hurt to keep himself fed, as well.

Scarred muzzle wrinkled in slight distaste as he tore at the scales of the fish he'd managed to catch (having taken a break from his patrols), having became quite a proficient fisherman as of late. It was by and far, not anywhere near his favorite thing to eat but the more he forced himself to eat of them, the less abysmal they had begun to taste and eventually he found that he was numb to the overpowering saltiness and stink that accompanied them. It was food and that counted for something.

The Beta was not alone for long. As he finished off his fish, eating what he could stomach to take from it, he took a few steps back, drawing his salmon pink tongue across his jowl, the aftertaste of salt and fish something that he was going to have to deal with until he could cleanse his palate with something else...if he was lucky enough to catch something further. For now, as he was learning, he accepted (however begrudgingly it was) that what he ate of the fish might be his final meal for the night, perhaps even until the next evening. His ears swiveled to either side of his head at the sound of approach — but not by one but two wolves. One he recognized as he turned to face them: the pale coated male from the fight for the deer — admittedly the first time the Beta had met him. There hadn't been any time for introductions or small talk, admittedly.

The second: a female her scent told him — he didn't know at all. She remained away from him and the other male, all but a ghostly silhouette in the distance to Kjalarr's monochromcy. “I am not a fan of fish,” Kjalarr spoke to them, ensuring that his voice carried so the female could, too, hear. “There is some left if either of you want it. It's not much but...” He trailed off with an errant shrug of his broad shoulders. Not much was pretty much all that the Teekon Wilds were offering them, at the moment. “I'm Kjalarr.” He didn't add Beta because he thought that was pretty self explanatory (or perhaps Caiaphas had informed them and thus he didn't want to be redundant).

Kjalarr offered Slancio a sage nod when the other light coated male spoke that, he, too was not a fan of fish either. That made Kjalarr feel a little bit better — there was a part of him considered that because he'd been born near the ocean and now lived near it once more that he should have been born with some kind of taste for the delicacies that the sea had to offer them; but that wasn't the truth. And he supposed not a fair thing to place upon himself because most of his life had been spent inland with the Frostfur's. The scarred Loðbrók watched as he spoke his name in return and moved closer to take a small bite of the fish. Kjalarr took a step back as to not intrude in the meager meal, though he looked to the female with unbridled surprise when she approached and wordlessly began to dig into his leftovers.

He licked his chops, considering for a moment as he watched her eat it with ...something of a cold shoulder towards him and Slancio. Kjalarr was not accustomed to being ignored — in fact was vain enough to mind being ignored — but let it roll off his shoulders with a slight roll of them. So long as she was not insubordinate towards him, Kjalarr saw no reason why he had to force her to acknowledge them. “I hope that green will begin to appear again and soon.” Already, several of them — Kjalarr included — had resulted to cannibalism though Kjalarr didn't see anything wrong with the barbaric act. It was food and the famine ensured that they could not waste anything that was gifted to them. Ordained by his Gods, Kjalarr told himself. What happened did so because the Gods willed it.

“I look forward to the return of the herds.” He wanted to feast ...he wanted to feast until he felt like he might burst. Thinking of having the luxury of eating all that food without feeling guilty about it only served to torture him and quickly Kjalarr banished the thought. There was no sense in getting over eager yet. The famine was far from over and they were weathering it ...and for now that was enough.

Kjalarr watched the exchange between the female and Slancio, hackles bristling slightly as she attempted to steal it from the male. Clearly, the woman did not understand the notion of share. For a moment, he hesitated, wondering if he should intervene or allow them to work it out on their own. It was a moment of great irony for the Loðbrok, so very ready to play mediator as he was, for usually he was the one instigating the fight. “You should learn to share,” Kjalarr did address the female but his words went largely ignored he realized as she left them just as quickly and silently as she'd came. He looked to Slancio and simply offered the other male a sheepish rise and fall of his broad shoulders. The truth was: he knew not who she was or why she had acted the way she had and could offer no insight for Slancio.

At the poetic mention of painting the sea's red, Kjalarr couldn't help the devilish smirk that tugged at the edges of his muzzle. That sounded grand. To hunt with reckless abandon: to have the energy to hunt for the pack and then for one's self without feeling inherently guilty about it. Though the strange female had left, Kjalarr had been affronted by her behavior towards them and his thoughts kept circling back to it. “I have to admit I do not know who that was,” Kjalarr spoke. “Perhaps she is new, perhaps she is not but if she gives you further trouble or ignores your rank again, come find me and I will take care of it.” Kjalarr promised. To the dual silver and sand colored viking rank was everything and he could not abide insubordination by any means (though he'd been insubordinate enough in Moonspear, ironically). “If I need to, I will speak to Caiaphas about her.” Though Kjalarr could not know that it wouldn't be necessary for long for the female would eventually take her leave.

While it was reassuring to learn that Slancio was not personally bothered by the female's behavior the fact of the matter that Kjalarr had been and it was part of his job to enforce the hierarchy, to enforce the laws that Caiaphas had set for them to abide by. “Hunger is no excuse. We are all hungry.” Despite the hunger that the two males also experienced they had acted how pack mates were expected to act towards one another. While he could (and would not) speak for Slancio, Kjalarr himself did not treat the subordinates of Saltwinter with the coldness they'd been displayed and thus far Slancio had not shown any hostility nor coldness towards Kjalarr and there was no doubt in the Viking's mind that the other male was just as hungry as they all were.

A low grunt left the Viking as the other male attempted to assuage him and assure him that he needn't get Caiaphas involved — not unless it got worse. But disrespect and insubordination was a capital offense to the proud Loðbrok and he did not (clearly) tolerate it well. “Yes, she should.” Kjalarr agreed grimly but let the matter drop with a slow shake of his head and a low snort. “So,” Kjalarr broached. “I know your name,” He gave a soft pause and continued with, “but that's the extent of my knowledge. Where do you hail from? Are there any trades you're interested in working towards?” Admittedly, Kjalarr didn't know much about how one went about getting to know another but figured the basic questions would have to do, for the moment: and of course he expected them to be reiterated back at him.

The other male's cheery smile was almost disarming to Kjalarr who returned it with a soft twitch of his lips upwards, politely giving Slancio his rapt and undivided attention when he began to speak and thus began to answer Kjalarr's questions. Kjalarr had tried not to be too personal with them, unsure what Slancio might consider unnecessary and unneeded information and what he would not have issue sharing. It turned out that Slancio came from a place called Horned Owl Valley. A valley of trees, as the other male had described it. For a moment Kjalarr's eyes left his companion to flit around the spindly and skeletal remains with a pang in his heart. Absently, he came to the conclusion that he was willing to bet this “Horned Owl Valley” wasn't suffering from the famine as they were. In some ways, this hope was something that Kjalarr needed to have, he realized. That the swarm did not stretch on endlessly, forever, ravaging the earth until nothing remained. The world...and he was not ready for Ragnarök.

In some ways, it was nice to hear a simple history. Slancio's was nice, Kjalarr realized. He grew up and he made the decision to leave his home, presumably on good terms. Nothing like the mess that had been Kjalarr's own puphood. No bear Hel bent on eating him, no sea sweeping him onto this very Sound, no nearly starving to death, no manipulating adoptive mother who liked to use his once fear of bears against him to bend him into obedience, no speak of family feuds. It was almost relieving to hear that wolves could have what Kjalarr would consider a normal puphood. Hearing that it was possible Kjalarr made a silent vow that his children would know a simple and happy childhood.

Kjalarr offered Slancio a sage nod of his head, tail sweeping against his hind legs as he then spoke of the trades — one of which Kjalarr himself had his eye upon. “I too aim for Scout, though I'm aiming for both Ranger and Ambassador.” One of which was only recently added as a goal due to his promotion to leadership. It seemed important, somehow, that a leader be able to fill the role of Ambassador, as they were the embodiment of the pack and it's representative.

A soft chuckle left Kjalarr's lips as Slancio made his own deductions, right on some and wrong on others. “I do aim for Mercenary, that is correct,” Kjalarr conceded giving pause to draw his salmon pink tongue across his chops. “I was born in these Wilds, actually. In a territory south of here called Stavanger Bay.” Kjalarr informed him slightly sheepish. “My father was a Northerner though, hailing from a Valley in the very far North.” As to where Thistle came from, Kjalarr was ashamed to say that he did not know but he looked much more like Ragnar than his mother so it seemed the most appropriate to speak of Ragnar and his origins instead.

“I know little about my father, in truth,” Kjalarr admitted. Though Caiaphas was the only one that he could say possibly knew the whole story (and perhaps even then she did not know all of Kjalarr — he and Tori can't remember) he realized that holding it like some of secret might make him seem untrustworthy. He had nothing to hide, in reality. It was simply a tragic story. There was no great shame in it. “All that I know of him comes from stories. He was killed before I could really know him, I was probably only two, maybe three months old and very shortly after his death I...there was a bear that had came into our borders and I was a stupid child. I approached it and when it tried to eat me I flung myself in the sea and was taken away from my family. I washed up on this very Sound.”

There was a furrow to Kjalarr's brow and his salmon pink tongue grazed across his jowls as he recounted it, skipping parts unless Slancio was determined to ask for them in full. “When I found my family again,” What a nightmare that had been! “my mother was very distant with me but she answered my questions about my father well enough." Kjalarr took a moment's breath offering a soft pause. “I am told I resemble him greatly, except for my legs that is.” He held up a sand socked leg which to his monochromacy simply looked like a darker grey against the platinum silver of his coat, but that was all Kjalarr had: the word of others. Sure, he'd seen Ragnar true enough in his dreams but if the wraith of his father was to his actual likeness or simply how Kjalarr dreamed and imagined him to be the young Viking could not say for sure.