The day had begun to draw to a close, the sun making it's descent as Skoll sought to devour it, giving way for the illustrious moon evade Skoll's sister: Hati. Sol and Mani were not so easily deceived by the gaping jowls of the devourer siblings and night after night and day after day they rose victorious from their battles. A howl rose for him, unfamiliar and laced with what Kjalarr thought to be ire. His hackles bristled as he altered his course and made his way to where the woman had summoned him. He drew in a deep breath, summoning his conviction to nurse his ire to a calm state as he laid eyes upon her, pallid against the backdrop of dark grays the darkening skies had painted the forest to his monochromacy. She stood, angered and bristled and his tail rose above his back, refusing to relent. Refusing to bow to the ferocity and fire of her wrath. He had stolen nothing. His family had supported his reign and he did not stand at the helm alone. His aunt lead beside him. Together, they worked as equals.

Through adoption or through blood: it did not matter. He was Scimitar's son just as much as he was Ragnar's and he would never discredit the work his father had put into the legacy of Neverwinter. He was experienced and willing to repay his father in death in a way that he had never been able to in life: by working to continue what he had built. To honor him in the greatest way that Kjalarr knew how. Calmly, the viking waited for her to speak, confident in his belief that there was many venomous words she desired to spit at him.

Perhaps he should have ousted her. Perhaps he should have chased her from the forest he now co-lead; but he did not. That was a coward's move. It would have been petty and childish. In his youth there would have been nothing to stop him because in his youth he had to make himself look like the big bad. The difference was: he had the power but in his manhood he had learned that using it in such ways was little more than abuse. She was angry. She was hurting; and though her disrespect was blatant in her disregard of his dominance Kjalarr was not naive and had expected resistance. Would the tables have been turned he would not have been happy, either. He understood. “I understand and I know you do not care,” He quoted her. “but it is important to me to. I hurt too more than you know,” Because it was clear she had no idea that he was Scimitar's son and his death was tearing him apart at the seams. Because he did not let it show, because he had duties to focus upon. Like Whittier's death Kjalarr struggled how to process it, unsure of where no believers of the Norse Gods went when they passed away and that was utterly terrifying to him.

“Scimitar is my father,” Adoptive or not had never mattered. Scimitar had filled the role that Ragnar had left in his death, had saved Kjalarr's life. Perhaps she was not even listening, but...perhaps she was. Perhaps it didn't matter to her and she would fight him no matter what he said; but he had to try to break through to her, at least ebb away her wrath. “He will always be the greatest man I have ever known and though you do not have to believe me I swear I will not dishonor him or this pack.” Yet Kjalarr knew that words alone would not be enough. He would have to prove himself and he had no qualms of that — he had expected the same thing of Charon at one point. Respect was earned not freely given. “Then I will earn your respect.” He said simply. Though it prickled at his ire (for he'd been leader of Saltwinter for too long for it not to) he sought to be peaceable and understanding.

The pallid woman's voice spoke of her grief, it lingered in the flow of her words as they spilled from betwixt her lips. She introduced herself as October and gave him her rank: Delta. The norseman offered her a sage nod, ears cupping forth atop his skull, attentive as she added to it. She spoke that she had accompanied Scimitar in his search for Rannoch. “Thank you,” Kjalarr offered her quietly: for accompanying Scimitar, for helping in the search for Rannoch, for returning and for standing resolute against him. As unorthodox as it sounded he would have been disappointed if he'd met with no resistance from those that were not Frostfurs and had not known him since Scimitar had taken him in and under his wing. Though her resistance could easily be seen as insubordination Kjalarr took it to mean that she had meant what she said: she cared about Neverwinter Forest and that was what he wanted. In order for roots to form and truly take hold a pack had to care about one another. Perhaps that was Saltwinter's ultimate undoing: when they were not at strife with one another (he thought specifically of the personal war between Ondine and Maude {even if it was over him, oops}) they were what Saltwinter had deigned to be upon it's conception: strangers banding together to survive, in reality. It had never been meant to live past it's first winter. Perhaps in that sense it'd always been a ticking time bomb.

There were roots here. Solid, deeply entrenched. Kjalarr appreciated that, and he sought only to nurture what had already grown. His gaze softened for a moment if she wondered what he had numerous times after Whittier'and even Caiaphas' death: that if she had stayed, if she had been there that Scimitar's death could have been avoided. He did not place the blame anywhere but where it belonged: on the bear(s) responsible; but he would never truly forgive himself for Caiaphas and Whittier's deaths and perhaps a part of him longed to find that irrational "survivor's guilt" in another — someone who understood. Both had fallen to the sea and both times the consideration that he could have saved them if he'd only been there lingered. Kjalarr understood that the Norns had long since decided the future of them all long before they were even a thought in their parent's heads but still. “This year has not been kind to our family.” Kjalarr drew in a deep breath and let it out. It all went wrong with Whittier's death (in his mind) and had been a downward spiral from there ending with the death of the Frostfur patriarch and his mate (whom Kjalarr regretted that he'd never gotten the chance to meet).

Standing stalwart in a raging storm of turmoil was never an easy thing. It weathered away at him like the sea weathered away rock: slowly but surely. Each reincarnation of himself that came out of the storms that the Gods threw at him was different than the last as he changed and learned. This storm was no easier than the others but Kjalarr was beginning to become adept at handling death of those that did not share the Norse culture with him. Kjalarr watched as October's gaze lifted once more to express that she would go to Donnelaith to bring them the ill-tidings, only to amend herself by adding that she would go if she had his permission. He had once ventured beside Caiaphas and Vlad to their borders. The details were foggy at best but he remembered that their patriarch and Caiaphas had not seen eye to eye on the topic of Maude's old crew. That was so long ago, though. It felt to Kjalarr like it had been in another lifetime.

“You may depart for Donnelaith when you are ready,” Kjalarr granted her his permission with a sage nod of his head before his scarred muzzle lifted. He was not sure if Scimitar's death would affect whatever terms of alliance that they had previously established or not and he saw the opportunity to decide if things had changed or not by allowing October to go. “Just...,” His salmon pink tongue drew across his jowls. “be careful.” There was no telling what she might be greeted with at Donnelaith (as he his first impression of them was not a very well defined one) and Kjalarr was not particularly keen on the idea of losing anyone else to a bear attack.

The familiar form of Cypress entered the scene and voiced his opinion on the matter of October going to Donnelaith. Kjalarr's icy gaze settled upon his little brother — easier to think of him that way then Kjalarr would have thought given that they were still strangers — studying the boy's features. In loss, Kjalarr was a beast of understanding. He'd lost much in his almost two years and Kjalarr was a realist to his core and knew that he would only lose more. Before Kjalarr could interject October seemed to melt before the young Frostfur boy and retract her mission, making him promises that she wouldn't leave. For a moment, Kjalarr wasn't sure what to say, grappling with the notion that it was ridiculous to promise him that she wouldn't leave. She couldn't stay glued to his side for the rest of his (and/or her) life. For a moment, Kjalarr saw some of his younger, lost, and broken self in his younger brother and his heart ached for him.

“If it is her safe return that concerns you, Cypress, I could escort her.” He, who had faced down two bears in his life and survived, with the ugly scars across the bridge of his muzzle to tell the gruesome story of his own teenage rebellion and idiocy. He offered the alternative because she had expressed interest in going and it was only at Cypress' pleading that her mind changed abruptly. “Or if your interest in visiting is no more, October, I can make the trip myself.” He was a (aspiring) ranger, after all and he'd made longer treks than this and his departure for the short time it would take for him to make the trek he knew his Aunt Kas could hold the fort. Loathe as he was to leave Ondine for any measure of time given her (what felt like rapidly) progressing pregnancy, October had put it in his mind to send someone to Donnelaith and he decided that it was probably a pretty good idea, especially given that he had no idea where Neverwinter stood with any of the other packs in the Wilds.