The herds had returned to the Wilds and seeing them as frequent sights was so relieving for the Viking who had begun to think that the pestilence of death and famine would never end. Life had began to return earlier in the month but he had not held onto the hope that it meant that they would not have to suffer for too much longer. Suffering had became a way of his life over the past couple of months. He had endured. He had learned. Yet, there had been a great personal cost along the way. Whittier's death was not so easy to forget or write off as something the Norns demanded. Perhaps it was and perhaps it wasn't but that did not work to fill the hole left in the Viking's heart. As time passed Kjalarr supposed he would regard Whittier's death the same as his father's: a fact of life; but currently it was too fresh and too painful.

He breathed in the salty brine that drifted off the sea on the wind. He had climbed up the Keep but left the Gyrfalcon nests alone. The one he had caught — despite that it had been unintentional! — was limp betwixt his paws where he laid in a comfortable, sphinx like position had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime Kjalarr was not hungry. He had eaten until he was full earlier in the morning and was truly grateful to find that there was no guilt attached to the feast he'd caught for himself. Still, he plucked the gyrfalcon's feathers from it's body to reveal it's supple flesh thinking that it was something he might take back to Saltwinter to one of it's caches.

It was a methodical, perhaps even a menial task: cleaning the gyrfalcon of it's feathers and yet it kept him delightfully busy. It gave him something to focus upon despite how trivial and small it was. It proved a distraction from his own thoughts and any form of such was welcome. He did not necessarily strive to be alone with his guilt and grief and yet he did not necessarily want to share in it, either. Surely it was only Kjalarr that Whittier's death had affected and so the Viking strove to conceal his feelings on it for the lack of knowing what else to do. He simply needed time to work through it.

He grabbed another mouthful of feather and gave a particularly vicious tug, having to readjust his large paw so that it was atop the corpse to avoid being awkwardly smacked in the face by it. The feathers gave way from the flesh of the bird with a satisfying tearing noise that would have no doubt been painful if his catch would not have been among the legions of dead. It barely heard her footfalls over the calls of the avians above as they communicated with one another though her greeting did not go undetected by the Viking who glimpsed at her with a single eye as she ripped his attention from his task and drew him into the moment once more.

She was a pallid beauty with bright eyes whose color appeared to simply be some mix between silver and white to the Viking who did not see colors beyond white, black and the varying shades of grey in between. His head turned in her direction so that he might study her with both of his caribbean, starburst with silver around his pupils gaze. Black, leathery nostrils flared as he inhaled her scent determining that it was not one he was familiar with, but no doubt of a pack. “Hello,” The Viking returned her greeting soft and curious.

As Kjalarr assessed her he became acutely aware that she was doing the same. It was to be expected, of course, they were strangers after all and they had to out of subconscious instinct alone. She gave a little noise that the Viking recognized as clearing her throat though for what purpose the Saltwinter beta could not be sure. Perhaps she simply had a tickle in her throat. She moved with grace, he watched, his eyes moving from her paws as she moved closer to her face once more. His posture did not tense, but he did rise to his paws at her approach — though not with the intent to flee. At her question he glimpsed down at the fowl betwixt his paws, partially bald from where he'd torn it's feathers free looking well quite funny at the moment before he looked back up at her.

The truth wasn't half so amazing sounding. In fact, the truth was just plain ironic. Catching the gyrfalcon had been literally as easy as it could have gotten: the bird had plummeted to the earth in front of him though he was unsure whether it had been it's death that had caused it's collision with the earth or the impact that had been the killing blow. Nevertheless, it had been there for the taking and Kjalarr was not the sort to turn his nose up at free food. Ideally, the the pallid sylph had laid the ground work for quite a tale, easily followed to make himself look like he'd accomplished the feat without circumstance intervening. Yet, that was not the truth and Kjalarr was arrogant but not enough to lie to that extent.

“Ah, no, I'm afraid not.” He admitted. “It fell from the sky and I grabbed it.” Lame, as far as stories went. Very lame. Not that Kjalarr considered himself lame by any means of the word. “I am sorry to disappoint you.” Kjalarr grinned and shrugged his broad shoulders. “I am Kjalarr.” He offered his name to her, glad that for the first time in a long time he did not feel the need to be hostile towards a stranger.

They passed a few more words before they parted ways, Kjalarr with his limp catch betwixt his jaws with the intent of taking it to one of Saltwinter's caches.