Kjalarr did not stray far from Saltwinter. The familiar weight of “survivor's guilt” pressed upon his broad shoulders and though he kept a strong facade for his wolves, the further he moved from his borders his shoulders slumped beneath the invisible weight. As it had been with Whittier, he felt that Caiaphas' death was his fault: that if he would have been in the right place he would have been able to save her. There had been only a slight reprieve by the fact that her body had not washed ashore as his brother's had and some tiny part of Kjalarr that was not a realist held onto the hope that she still lived, that the Sea had spared her and simply carried her away to a different shore as it had with him when he'd been a small, helpless child. The viking knew that death was something that he should have been celebrating but Caiaphas did not share his Nordic beliefs, he assumed, and trying to convince himself that she'd went to Valhalla generated about the same results as it had with Whittier: he couldn't see it and it did not soothe him as it should have.

He had informed Maude that he was stepping out to the Buffs for a few hours, letting her know that he would only be a short howl away if she needed him. He hadn't gotten very far from his borders when he spotted a pallid woman whose scent he did not recognize but in some capacity struck him as familiar: deep in his bones. Yet, he could not place it. Kjalarr did not remember much of his first couple months in Stavanger Bay: he remembered Floki because he felt his twin on a spiritual plane. His twin was apart of him in ways that he couldn't explain or even truly begin to understand; and he remembered Thistle only because he'd spoken with her during his short stay at Moonspear and he remembered Ragnar through Thistle's stories and memories. Yet, (and it was horrible) he'd forgotten that he even had biological siblings beyond Floki and though there was something about her that nagged at him in the very back of his brain as familiar he found the feeling to be perplexing and shrugged it off as a “deja vu” sort of thing.

He let out a low chuff to her, watching her carefully. She was not close to his borders, yet, but he hoped to redirect her towards him nevertheless.

The pallid creature drew nearer to him at his chuff, which she responded to with one of her own. Kjalarr watched her close with distance with caution, unable to recognize her and close enough (though there was a good distance between them and the borders) to his borders for him to be territorial. He did not claim the Blackbeak Buff, Firefly Ravine, Barrow Fields, Dragoncrest Cliffs, or The Tangle but as all territories bordered Ankyra Sound and acted as hunting grounds for the Saltwinter wolves he was, like his father in that respect, territorial over them all the same, especially close to his borders. The woman let out a laugh, perplexing to Kjalarr, and drew nearer to him. As if she knew him. Sadly, she brought with her no recognition, though he recognized the Norse word she greeted him in. Brother. His hackles rose and bristled along his spine, his lips curling back, his gaze watching her as she circled him, using his “dead” name. Jorunn. That boy had died a long time ago. He would have assumed that she had mistaken him for Floki — which happened frequently. Yet, she had greeted him by a name he had stopped using many, many months ago. The viking informed her unflinchingly, “I don't use that name anymore. It's Kjalarr, now.” The Nourisher. One of Odin's numerous names, bestowed to him by the phantom of his deceased father. He was suspicious, unable to draw the connection of who she was to him, those wires long since cut without hardly any memories to keep the connection there. “You called me brother, and yet I do not recognize you.” She knew his given name, and yet he still did not remember hers; presenting itself as a crux to him.

She repeated the name he'd given to her as if she could not wrap her mind around it. “And I will not answer to it,” The Viking Jarl told her in sharply, holding firm. “It is the name of a boy that has been dead for a long time,” He emphasized. “I was called the name Kjalarr by a phantom in my dreams: scarred, large, one eyed. It could have been my father, Ragnar, or it could have been the Allfather." Had Ragnar not boasted of being descended from the God King numerous times? Did that not mean that blood of Odinn ran through their veins if only faintly, if it were true at all? She was not happy, he deduced: ah, he seemed predisposed to picking fights with all of his “siblings”. First Charon, then Floki (a rift that which was thankfully mending), and now this woman calling herself his sister. “I don't know,” Kjalarr told her honestly, his shoulders rising and falling with his hefty sigh. He was mourning Caiaphas' death — it was a heavy weight and his grief clouded his mind — and his memories of his siblings aside from Floki ceased to exist, though whether it was because he had been the the closest to his twin, or a byproduct of the trauma he'd suffered when he'd been a young boy, nearly being eaten by a bear and swept out to sea before he could even take care of himself he didn't know; and wasn't all that eager to uncover. That was all in the very distant past, anyway.

“I'm not saying you're lying,” He wanted to clear the air on that, just in case she thought he was accusing. “You know the name Jorunn and so very few know of it, so there has to be truth to your words,” after all Ragnar had many children. They were just his last. “You are familiar to me.” It was something, at least.

“It isn't your choice to make,” Kjalarr told her, unwilling to allow himself to be called a name that meant nothing to him. Jorunn was the boy before the bear and the sea and both had snuffed out that weak boy's life. She was not in charge of him and did not get to set what name she wanted to call him. She may have been his sister but she was not his superior. “Then you see a dead boy that stopped living a long time ago.” Because Kjalarr wasn't a boy, and she could hold her ground. That was fine, because Kjalarr could be just as stubborn. He could be an unbending, immovable stone too. She spoke that her name was Ragna, named for their father. To the Loðbrók that had endured much trauma in his short life it failed to ring the bells it should have. He could not deny that there was something familiar about her but essentially they were strangers meeting for the first time that may have shared blood. Shared blood did not make them familiar with one another. She was still a stranger to the Jarl.

She was confident that he would remember, except her tone bordered an order. The Jarl's lips twitched in ever so slightly in contempt. Sister or not...she had no right to think that she could order him around. She had not been enough of a presence in his early life for him to remember her and she was only now making an appearance almost two years later. She had no right to boss him around, no ground to stand on, as far as Kjalarr was concerned. “We'll see.” He spoke simply with a lofty rise and fall of his broad shoulders.

He used the “death of a part of me” as a metaphor. Obviously he hadn't died. His lips curled back in warning when she instructed him not to be stupid. “It's a metaphor,” He emphasized unkindly. “I am not the boy you remember. You will call me Kjalarr or nothing at all.” She wasn't Ragnar and she wasn't Thistle and she had no right to tell him what she was going to call him when he didn't want to be called Jorunn. It wasn't like it would hurt him if she never spoke to him again. He was quickly realizing that the only family members that mattered to him were Floki and Ragnar. Maybe it was cruel of him; but it wasn't like he could help how he thought. What he remembered. He didn't even remember Ragnar all that well, but he strove to emulate his father in every conceivable manner and had collected stories of him from Thistle like a sponge collects water. As it turned out, he was much more like Ragnar when he stopped trying to be. His father, too, had horrible relations with his family and it seemed that save for Floki, Kjalarr was destined to be the same.

“You should remember,” Kjalarr snapped at her, unfairly, since she was so angry about him not remembering her. “Or did you forget about the bear that tried to eat me and that the sea carried me out and dumped me on Ankyra Sound. I was young, too young to take care of myself when that happened. I was starving when a male found me and took me in, raised me as his own son. My meager memories faded over time. Except for Floki but he's my twin and that's different.” It was impossible for him to forget the one thing that he cared about the very most in this world: his other, his better half. Forgetting Floki would be like forgetting how to breathe. “Why is it so important that I remember? Why do you push?” The Jarl demanded with a sharp snap of his teeth, angry.

“If you are my sister then fine. I believe you. Ragnar had numerous children, after all. The past is the past. The present is a chance to make new memories.”

Kjalarr wanted to retort that if he truly meant something to her she would accept him as he was now instead of trying to shove him in a box of the boy she remembered. He wasn't what she wanted him to be. Meaning something to someone meant acceptance, no matter what. With no strings attached. Though this was just the northman's opinion he held resolute to it. He would not give an inch, either. Stubborn was something that the resilient Ragnarsson was very good at. She proposed that they spar and the Jarl scoffed at her. A proposal that a younger, more reckless Kjalarr would have accepted without hesitation. The older Kjalarr, the Jarl did not like that she thought she could set the perimeters of this situation and that he was expected to do things her way. Oh, how wrong she was. Scarred muzzle wrinkled back and he bared his teeth at her, tail lashing behind him. “No,” She was missing the point, still trying to put herself in control of a situation that Kjalarr refused to relinquish his own control on. To what end? To appease her? What about him? Why did he have to sacrifice for her?

“I am the sole Jarl of my pack, it's queen recently deceased. I will not spar with you. I have responsibilities and I need my strength.” He did not think anyone would challenge the rank he'd already held but the rules of Saltwinter were clear: all ranks were challengeable. Even his own. “You keep trying to take charge of this situation but I do not bow to you. Sister or not. Eldest or not.” The truth was: Ragnar wouldn't have stood for her attitude, either. “You expect me to give and yet you are unwilling to give anything yourself.” He refused to give into her. He'd always been dominate — even as Jorunn; and this trait had only been encouraged and strengthened through his life. Ragna didn't have to like it and frankly Kjalarr didn't much care.