The opossum had evaded him, escaping the clash of his teeth by seconds by slipping down into a burrow made in one of the strange mounds that dominated Borrow Fields. A snarl of frustration rumbled up within the strong column of the viking's throat and wretched itself from between his parted jowls. He'd nearly headbutted the mound, and spent a few moments digging furiously at the burrow's hole to hear the accursed beast scramble deeper into it's hiding place. An angry gnash of his teeth was given as he swallowed his pride and admitted the defeat, albeit with exaggerated reluctance. For now, he would go hungry, although hunger was not an unfamiliar companion to the brute. Sprouts had begun to appear, he'd taken note of the sigh of new life though the palette remained the same: monochrome, for Kjalarr's eye condition only let him see things as if he were watching an old black and white film. The world of the day was bleak to him always, but the world of the night and his dreams were far from it.

He paced to and fro before the mound his prey had vanished into before he figured while he was here he might as well explore. The opossum clearly was not going to come from it's hiding spot any time soon and there was no sense in wallowing over his failed hunt. He had only been through the Barrow Fields in passing and before had never taken the time to discover the mysteries it held. There was a shift in the breeze — cool against the muggy morning as it moved through his fur like the caress of fingers — and despite himself he felt his hackles bristle. He was not an easy beast to spook but something about this territory left him feeling a little unsettled. Two ravens soared overhead, letting out loud caws, momentarily seizing the viking's attention. Huginn and Muninn. No doubt the two ravens had caught his failure and when they returned to Asgard so, too, would the Allfather.

As the ravens vanished into the horizon Kjalarr turned his attention back to the ground and sniffed at the nearest mound, wondering what made them and why.

Concentrated as he was on trying to detect any scents ...familiar and foreign to him Kjalarr was unaware of the other until a voice called out to him. Even in the seconds it took him to process that Floki had called him Tevinter — briefly forgetting that he had yet to correct his twin as he had Whittier — he sensed the familiarity of his twin without even having to look at him. Yet, when he did turn his silver and caribbean gaze to his twin — different from him in what Kjalarr believed to be every conceivable way — the tension of ire left the Viking's shoulders and his failed hunt was forgotten in the jubilation of seeing his twin again. Kjalarr realized that in a way — hearing one of his “old names” again sparked the idle contemplation — he was sort of like the Allfather, Odin: he was accumulating quite the collection of names. Jorunn, Tevinter, Kjalarr, though he hoped Kjalarr would be his last. It was exhausting to try to remember to remind or let everyone know he had changed it ...and then there would always be those who called him by his birth name.

“Floki,” Kjalarr called back and loped quickly to cross and eliminate the distance between them. They had promised to see one another again but their duties and their differing paths kept them busy. Still, Kjalarr intended to not waste this time while it had presented itself to him. “How are you?” The scarred Viking inquired, holding back the brotherly nudge of greeting he desired to give his twin. Things were better between them but Kjalarr wasn't sure if they were good enough to greet each other like that or not and he was careful to let his twin set the boundaries of how cool with one another they were.

“That's good,” Kjalarr conceded when Floki responded to his question. The most important thing was that Floki was alive and that except for the gauntness that the famine had left in Kjalarr himself, he looked well. Although, Kjalarr suspected he would feel if Floki had departed the land of the living — midgard — in favor of the Great Halls. Their strange and celestial connection to one another was one that would stand the test of time. It did not know , nor acknowledge their disagreements or the distance between them. “Just north of here, actually.” Kjalarr responded, an offer to take Floki there dying on his tongue when he noted the change in his twin's posture. Floki hissed a word at Kjalarr and the viking followed the sharp gesture of his twin's muzzle, his mouth gaping open in equal parts shock and awe as his monochrome gaze flickered to the moose in the distance. Saliva began to pool in his mouth at the sudden desire to sink his teeth into the magnificent beasts' tender flesh. Kjalarr licked his chops to collect the drool that had begun to dribble from the corner of his lips at the thought, as unbecoming as it was.

“The Gods have smiled upon us today, brother,” Kjalarr chuckled lowly to Floki, careful to not disturb the moose, though his mirth was quickly snuffed out when he, too, noticed the coyote lurking around the moose. A low rumble of muffled outrage resounded within Kjalarr's chest, his first thought that the coyote was going to steal the twins' meal from them. Yet, bizarrely, the coyote did not appear to attack the moose, neither did the moose appear at all frightened of it. “Why is it not attacking it? Why is the moose not afraid?” Though Kjalarr expected no answer from his twin. He couldn't wrap his mind around it but perhaps Floki could offer some better insight to the baffling sight that had unfolded before Kjalarr's eyes.

It didn't matter, Kjalarr decided a moment later. Though admittedly, the two of them weakened by the famine probably wasn't enough to bring down the moose, and whatever chance they had decreased dramatically with the unexpected and unwelcome presence of the coyote. “What do you say, brother? Do we take our chances?” For as much as Kjalarr wanted to charge into the hunt, into the battle, he sought Floki's council so naturally that he barely recognized it's significance.

Kjalarr decided that, in the end, the bizarre friendship that appeared to be between the moose and the coyote didn't matter. The perplexity still remained, of course, but it was hardly the time or the place to puzzle it out. That could come later after Floki and him and feasted themselves full on the supple and decadent flesh their prey had to offer. Though the moose was the more tempting of the two — it meant more meat — Kjalarr would not be so picky as to turn his nose up at the coyote. He had supped upon the flesh of wolf before and did not see much difference and was not opposed to settling for the lesser of creatures.

Kjalarr's grin stretched from ear to ear when Floki confirmed that they should take their chances, exposing his sharp, gleaming teeth in the process. There was little better to bond over than the adrenaline, thrill and the familiarity of hunting together. The trust and silent communication that it took to properly orchestrate it and the advantage to being twins was that at times their communication could be wordless: nothing more than a feeling, simple in it's complexity but just as effective as if something would be spoken. The unlikely pair began to move and hungry eyes followed them. The coyote parted from the moose then, but Kjalarr was inherently too suspicious to believe that it had truly departed the scene for good. Surely, it would come rushing back to the rescue of it's friend when the twins made their move.

“She would be wise to not interfere.” If she did...well then the consequences would be her's alone, Kjalarr thought. Floki began to move and Kjalarr mirrored his brother's stance, slinking low — though the lack of tall grasses and their pallid fur color no doubt gave them away. Stealth was not truly an option, for no doubt the moose was aware that it was being stalked. Kjalarr broke away from Floki then, veering as to position himself so he would have easier access if the moose attempted to flee. Effectively, he was attempting to flank her opposite of Floki, herding her to where the twins could grab the upper hand. His grin easy where it remained upon his lips at the promise of a feast fit for king's. There was a chance that the moose could evade them (and he was not so arrogant as to pretend it wasn't a possibility) but for once he allowed himself the rare favor of positive thinking.

The opossum might have evaded him but Kjalarr was determined not to let this magnificent beast evade him. If Floki and him could catch it...why, they would eat like kings. Granted, he understood the possibilities weren't overly high — on a good hunt day it usually took a whole pack to bring down a deer which was significantly smaller than this moose. Still. Floki gave chase to it when it darted away and Kjalarr went into position, launching himself forward into a run, mirroring his twin's given grin before his brother snapped harmlessly at her heels. Kjalarr intended to keep his momentum, snapping his teeth at the air close by her flank. The famine had seen that he was not as strong as he should have been and this frustrated the viking but he deigned to keep pace and not fall behind where it would be possible to fall victim to her hooves.

The moose evaded the twins — weak and slower from the famine — and though the bullheaded part of Kjalarr very much wanted to push himself to keep going his muscles were aching and his stomach was protesting and he knew that if he pushed the issue, if he pushed his body to the peak of it's limits he might be signing an early death, and there was nothing honorable in dying because of obstinacy and stupidity. He slowed to a stop, snorting at the moose's retreating form, panting from the exertion, bowing his head and swallowing the bitter pill of defeat. It did not go down smoothly but he accepted it and let it go with a roll of his shoulders. Two prey in the same day had gotten away from him, and it angered him and his failure combined with his hunger made him a bear (ha).

He rounded and padded back to Floki, having felt the ghost of his pain when his brother had taken the tumble. “Are you hurt bad?” The phantom pain wasn't enough for Kjalarr to determine the extent or what had exactly caused it since he hadn't actually seen it happen. Only felt the aftermath. “Let me see,” Although, his monochromacy didn't make Kjalarr the poster child for a good medic, admittedly; and not to mention his knowledge on healing did not extend beyond sea water to cleanse a wound (very much like Ragnar) he was concerned and wanted to assern for himself that Floki would be alright. Kjalarr's brows furrowed when his brother apologized and took the blame for the moose escaping them. “Why are you apologizing?” Kjalarr inquired softly, unable to understand. “Don't be ridiculous Floki, we're both half starving from the famine. The moose got lucky, that was all.” Kjalarr rounded his twin then and bumped his shoulder gently against Floki's own. “There will be other mooses...meeses? Moose?” Kjalarr's brow furrowed as he tried to decide which was the correct word and then let out a snort. “This famine can't last forever.” At least Kjalarr desperately hoped that it wouldn't.

Floki assured him that the only thing that was hurt was his pride and Kjalarr offered him a reassuring smile. Kjalarr knew how hard of a blow one's pride could take and understood that it was a bitter pill to swallow. The trick, Kjalarr had learned, was not to let it seethe beneath the skin, to accept it and push to do better the next time. “I might eat until my stomach explodes when it does end,” Because since the famine started all he wanted to do was gorge himself. The little bits of food he'd been able to hunt for himself hadn't been enough to truly sate his hunger, just enough to keep his stomach from digesting itself; and the time when he had feasted it had been upon the flesh of another wolf, though for reason he emitted his from Floki for the fear that his twin would find it unworthy, that he would cease to talk to him again and losing Floki again wasn't something Kjalarr thought he could deal with. Some things were better left unsaid.

“Yes, it's close by,” Kjalarr responded and gestured towards it with his muzzle. “I can show it to you, if you'd like?” At the very least he could show Floki where it's borders were so that his twin could come visit him, if he wished. Kjalarr doubted he was welcome to visit Floki else he would do so more frequently. The grudge against Charon might have been a dissolving thing — though his dislike still lingered from their past transgressions with one another — but Kjalarr doubted Charon would be eager to forgive and forget.