Kjalarr had no real reason to go to the Herbalist's Cache, admittedly. None of his trades required anything the unassuming forest could offer him, but it wasn't particularly out of the norm for a scout to venture out. He did not deign to travel too far from Saltwinter most days as he felt most at home within the Sound and there was no need to escape it; however, earning the scout trade was simply the first step. He knew he had to keep his skills honed and sharp. Still, he supposed knowing the quickest way to the Cache from Saltwinter's shores and of it's existence. Admittedly, he wasn't sure if Saltwinter had any aspiring medics but it was useful knowledge all the same. He kept moving forward all the same, taking in the monochrome landscape around him in the glow of the rising sun, pausing every so often to sniff at something but never lingered too long in one spot. The viking's steps were set to a leisured pace, his posture relaxed as he allowed his muscles to stretch with the ease and simple joy of his little adventure.

It had been some time since he'd allowed himself to venture out just for the sake of it. His last trip had been anything but pleasant as he'd been self tasked with the duty of telling his family of Whittier's death. That trip had been out of necessity and had gotten him out of Saltwinter when they...disposed of his brother's body. Eating strangers that had died outside their territory now that had not bothered the viking at all but he would have rather starved to death then eaten Whittier. As the fates would have it that sacrifice hadn't been necessary: he was still alive, he had survived the famine; and now stood beside Caiaphas as her equal. It was still a strange thing for Kjalarr to get used to, admittedly. He took the time to stretch his legs and allow his thoughts to wander, occasionally stopped to investigate scents that intrigued him as he went, to mentally map anything that was tell-tale as a landmark or of particular interest.

It was during one such investigation as he sniffed as a mint plant, drawn in by it's smell though he kept some distance from it unsure what it's purpose or effects were when he heard it. A soft, feminine voice call out from nearby. Concealed, he noted as his head rose sharply, gaze sweeping over the foliage where he was. Scarred muzzle lifted with the hopes of catching her scent and when he did he made his approach, slow, shrugging through the foliage. He saw her through a break within the greenery, a will-o-wisp of a thing, though her true colors were lost upon his monochromacy he noted her as he noted all things: in black, white and the varying and numerous shades of grey. Her fur appeared to be wind-swept as if she could not be bothered to keep up with it. In comparison he felt immaculately groomed, when he should have been just as ruffled and perhaps even covered in dirt and blood as the description of vikings tended to go; but it had to be accounted for that Kjalarr was an awfully vain creature.

“Hello,” He greeted her in his accented voice, keeping distance between them, just in case. She seemed friendly enough from her greeting but one could never be too careful. A lesson he'd learned by the scars that marred his muzzle, made in a more foolish lifetime. When he felt he had everything to prove and that the only way he could do it was to instigate a beast five times his size and his power into attacking.

Kjalarr watched as she hesitated for a moment, unsure whether she wished to take flight or remain as he felt her eyes study him. Though Kjalarr had more or less put thoughts of his father to rest, he wondered about him now. He was told that he looked like him — like Ragnar. Same build, same handsome craft of the deceased legend's face, only different. Thistle made her presence known in Kjalarr's looks as well, but his intimidation no doubt came from the legend himself. Thistle had been small and albeit plenty of fire to make up for her size the fact remained. He was built like a viking. Though (surprisingly) Kjalarr did not give much thought to how he looked to others, he had moments when he took the time to groom himself and then there were other times when he wasn't much fussed with his own appearance.

Her eyes had seemed to widen and he bit back the soft chuckle that threatened to escape him. Though his ability to intimidate upon appearance alone was a useful thing the truth was, unless she did anything to change it, he was of no threat to her. He wasn't a mindless berserker. He didn't go attacking people for no reason. No, he thought wiry (with slight exasperation), he only attacked bears for no reason. Twice and nearly lost his life both times. Admittedly, the first time he'd been too naive to realize the danger, and having snuck off with his twin he had been unsupervised and the second time he'd been driven by reckless abandon to prove himself to the point where he could have been considered well...suicidal; but that felt like a life time ago now.

She smiled and Kjalarr returned it with an easy smile of his own. “It's pretty amazing,” Kjalarr murmured in concurrence, glimpsing at the multitude of medicinal plants around them. “My mother would love this place,” but he hadn't seen or spoken to his mother in months, and despite his plea she had not came to talk to him. She'd turned her back on him and this sudden thought — one that had not occurred to him until now — left a bitter taste in his mouth and with an eagerness to think about anything else but her. “Well, if it makes you feel any better I don't know anything about them either.” He didn't have the patience to learn how to heal, and no true desire to learn the craft though he held it in high enough esteem. He recognized that it was important to have medics but he simply wasn't cut for the role of doctor.