Though grief had become a companion to Kjalarr he knew that he could not let it debilitate him; though he felt like he was marching off into war. The pale Saltwinter Beta had made his intentions know to Caiaphas that he had to go to Neverwinter Forest for a few days and tell them of Whittier's passing, no matter how terrified the idea of facing them left him. It had not truly been Kjalarr's fault and somewhere deep down beneath the guilt and grief he knew this, but it had been under his watch that Whittier had fallen victim to the merciless mistress that was the sea. She had swept him away, drowned him as if she were the mother siren herself and deposited him back upon the Sound's shores. It was awful in it's irony: and horrible in that somehow the sea had spared him when he'd been a three month old pup, just barely weaned from his mother's teat and unable to provide for himself and yet it had taken Whittier's life — Whit who had been an adult. Capable of fending and taking care of himself. Stronger than Kjalarr had been back then. Yet, it hadn't. He had meant to head straight to Neverwinter: to follow the path he'd taken the first time and yet he found himself taking a different course than before.

He did not want to bear this awful weight: to be the bearer of horrible and heart wrenching news to his family. Yet, Kjalarr trusted no one else with the task. The Frostfurs were his family, Whittier had been his brother, and Kjalarr Whittier's leader, not to mention he'd been the one to initially find the Frostfur's body. It only seemed appropriate that Kjalarr himself inform them. Yet, he felt the weight of the courage that it would take. Of course, he knew that it was simple: he had to be a man and tell Scimitar the news and he had to accept the consequences. He had sworn to protect Whittier and he had failed. Failed to save his life. Things would have gone so differently if he'd only...Kjalarr broke the thought off with a sharp snort, his ears splaying back to rest against his proud crown. He would drive himself mad if he kept circling back to that. He could no more change what had happened then he could change anything else that had happened in his life. Yet, none thus far had been so horrible as Whittier's death.

The Plateau was beautiful from where Kjalarr stood atop it, scarred muzzle facing the sea brine that carried upon the wind. He enjoyed the monochrome view his eyes offered him, intending to stay a short while. He was close to Neverwinter that he would not have to rush. A few hours spent lingering here, resting, hunting if the odds were in his favor, he thought might do him some good.