Blacktail Deer Plateau my spirit spurns control

bwp: frostbitten — conditions: thundersnow; tagging for visibility & reference!

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Kjalarr’s dreams had been vivid, dreaming of Ragnar and ice. A chill that settled into the marrow of his bones and refused to ease. A frost that would put Niflheim to shame. Unsettled by the few carcasses he found untouched except for the frost and chill Kjalarr worried. With their prey literally falling to the elements this was not terrible but the chill worried him. He worried for his wolves, for Cypress and for his son. It seemed logical to him that this cold would be spread through the entire wilds but just as he had with the locusts he had to make sure. Perhaps, in part, some of it was the fact that he was not a beast deigned to be in one place for long and never leaving Neverwinter’s borders left him feeling stir crazy. That and …Floki had never came calling as he said he would — and it was not like Floki not to stick to his word. The fact that his twin hadn’t unsettled the viking more than anything else and after informing @Kaskara and @Ondine that he would be gone for a few days to see if the northern stretches of the Wilds were just as frigid.

Kjalarr made it up Blacktail Deer Plateau before he realized his error.

The hot springs had been misleading, the warmth they provided even on the chilliest of days offered the Viking a fool’s hope and though he should have turned around and headed back to Neverwinter the moment he cleared the Hot Springs and the chill set back in, as bitter as ever as it weaved through his long, coarse winter coat he pushed forward with his plan instead of aborting it. It was as he made his way back through the Plateau’s woodland that the thunder boomed with Thor’s mighty fury from above. Kjalarr’s steps paused and his ears perked forth before they slicked back against his skull as the snow fell. It was warmer beneath the cover of the trees, and from the worst of the winds and snow Kjalarr found he was shielded (plus his arctic heritage helped for he was built for the cold) but he was left to ponder if he would survive the journey back to Neverwinter or if he would freeze to death on the way and was faced with the decision: risk freezing to death and never making it back to his pack and family or wait out the storm hoping that it was quick to pass.

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There was one good thing about the cold weather - Birk was able to breathe again. The inflammation in his upper airways became less unbearable and the icky stuff in his nose had cleared away and he did not have to sneeze every ten minutes anymore. The cough however had remained,therefore now and then during running he would have to stop and spend some time wheezing and retching.

Other than that - he was doing fine. Though he had escaped his former home in order to seek an easier life in milder climate, part of him had always longed for the Ice fields and now that the weather was getting worse with every passing day, he felt an unusual sense of joy. As if the nature itself was challenging him and with many generations of tough survivors behind him, he wanted to prove that he was not afraid and that he would make it through. 

"Woohoo!" Birk howled jovially, when the lightening struck for the first time. He had no idea, what he had seen now or, whether it was dangerous, therefore... "Bring it on!" he yipped at the sky and as if answering his call, there was yet another strike and with that came a "snow-slap" in the young man's face. "Okey, okey... got it..." he said, wiping his face and leaving the clearing and entering the forest nearby. It turned out that he was not the only loner here seeking shelter. Few meters away there was a sturdy white wolf standing. After checking that the forest would be big enough for both of them, Birk sat down and studied the stranger from distance, trying to solve the mystery of whether that guy was in any way related to him or not.

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It was the jovial shouting, raised in pitch whose tail end Kjalarr caught after Thor’s thunder diminished as his mighty anvil rose that drew the viking’s attention. It was enough, even if it was for the briefest of moments, to distract him from what he few options he faced. As feeding his curiosity was much better than facing his bleak and potentially grim options as he regarded the error of his fool’s choice he hesitated, wondering whether it was wise to seek the other out or perhaps stick to himself, lay low and go unnoticed. He had not expected company, not really. While he very vaguely had been aware of a pack that had claimed these lands long ago he knew them long to be gone, with their absence the territory freed to the Wilds once more. Besides, he rather thought loners would be racing against the clock that potentially spelled their doom. Not from starvation — the frozen corpses were many and he, himself, would not go hungry whether he chose to stay or risk the return trip to Neverwinter — but from the possibility of freezing to death.

The woodland provided a break from the ivory snow that allowed him to pick out the other male with relative ease, despite his monochromic and the winter landscape around them. The other was pale, as he was and staring at him from where he sat, giving Kjalarr a slight start having not realized that he was so close. Kjalarr’s tail lashed against his hocks as the longer fur at his nape ruffled with surprise though not hostility. “You sound awfully excited about the storm,” Kjalarr broke his silence after his salmon pink tongue drew across his jowls, leathery, black nostrils flaring as he drank in the other’s scent. “It could mean the end of our days.” He’d thought the locust swarm had been Ragnarok but now he wasn’t so sure. Maybe this was Ragnarok, or maybe like the locust it would come and it would pass. At least this time the likelihood of him being pushed to the extreme of cannibalism again was very small (if non existent).

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..... 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, I have no idea, what comes next, I.H.N.I.W.N. 1... and.... BINGO! All the while Birk was looking at the man, he counted until the moment the other would finally notice him. As it is clear, he would have never been a top student in maths, but he would definitely been a very creative one. 

"You are not wrong," Birk replied with a smile, lifting his muzzle then to look up at the sky, where the storm was raging above the treetops. There was yet another flash of lightening and rumble of thunder moments afterwards. The guy was right - he could die today, tomorrow - at any point in the winter, but he somehow did not care about it in the least. It was an oddly relieving feeling. 

"But I daresay I have seen worst and... for a descendant of jötunns it would be a shame to feel afraid from such a... breeze," he finished and, as he did, there was a sound of breaking wood, when the "breeze" brought a tree down in the distance.

pls excuse this poop post. D:

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“Jotunns?” Kjalarr repeated the word not because he did not understand but, rather, because he did and it surprised him to hear it so casually as if it was a perfectly normal thing for a wolf to be descendent from the giants. Then again, Ragnar had claimed that he and his sons were descended from the Allfather, himself. Whether there was truth to that or not Kjalarr would never know but what was the point of claiming it if it were not true? “You are a northman.” like me. Not spoken as a question but rather as a statement because he had stated as much, hadn’t he? Did this man know of Ragnar? How far had word of his father’s conquests spread? Or was he perhaps some unknown son of Kjalarr’s late father? He’d never met another viking that wasn’t related to him before and the prospect was intriguing. “I was told that I am a descendent of the Allfather,” Since they were sharing their claimed heritage with one another. “From what clan do you hail, stranger?” Kjalarr asked, wondering if it was one that he would know or not.

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"Depends, who is asking," Birk replied, hiding his surprise that this man seemed to know, what he was talking about and that maybe it had not been that wise to blurt out about his origins. To be true - he had picked out and memorized those facts from his family history that he found either silly and interesting or those that could impress people, who were not familiar with the wolves of the Ice fields.

"Funny you should mention him - slained my great-great-great-something ancestor and flooded the land with his blood, killing most of the others," that had been a fun bed-time story his mom had told him as a kid. In other words - stay out of the water or the ice cold jotunn blood will freeze you to death. 

"But no hard feelings there. Can't put a name on the clan, but plenty of the bold, the beautiful, the ugly and stinky too," he just could not forget his horrible aunt. She was an epitome of the ancestral jotunns. "So - Odin's son - who are you?"

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Kjalarr eyed the pallid stranger at the response of it depends who is asking. It was a fair enough response, if not a bit frustrating to Kjalarr who only sought to quench his own curiosity. A trait that ran in his family regardless of if Ragnar’s grand tales of their ancestry were to be believed. He’d heard that his father was a curious beast when he’d drawn breath on Midgard and Kjalarr supposed that he got it honestly. The scarred northman’s ears slicked back to rest at half mast atop his skull when the stranger mentioned that Odinn had slain his great-something ancestor and numerous others in the process. This news did not particularly shock Kjalarr but for once he was unsure of what to say. What was he expected to say to that? Sorry my claimed ancestor slain your great-something ancestor? He was not in the habit of apologizing for things he did actually feel remorse for. In fact, Kjalarr couldn’t remember the last time he’d uttered the words “I’m sorry” (to show how often he doesn’t say them). A soft snort of amusement left Kjalarr’s black, leathery nostrils when Birk generalized his clan, though no name was given whether they didn’t have one or he didn’t remember Kjalarr couldn’t say and supposed, in the end, it didn’t matter.

Odinnsson. Kjalarr could not deny he liked the sound of it, liked the way that it caused pride to swell in his chest. It was not a name he’d ever deigned to claim for in truth, he was Ragnarsson. Though his legacy had faded with his death it was the only name that Kjalarr knew he could claim. Yet, if the rumor was to be believed: that Ragnar and his children were descendants of Odinn then did that not, in a way, make him an Odinnsson? Was he not named for the Allfather himself? Kjalarr meant The Nourisher and had been one of the many monikers that the Allfather was known by. “I am Kjalarr.”

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"Kjalarr - well, that is a tasty name," Birk replied, while going through the little vocabulary he recalled from the "common tongue" up North and drawing parallels with the name "kilja", which basically was associated with food. Whoever had named this chap, had done a very good job - there was an old superstition among his ancestors that by having a meaningful name, you could affect the child's future greatly. Which meant choosing between tough jotunn names or food. Birk was an exception, but he was not your typicall ice giant either. 

"It's not every day you meet someone, who could potentially be related to you," he continued, feeling that he should keep the conversation going, otherwise Kjalarr's one sentence statements would not bring them anywhere far. Typical northerner. "Are you native of here or too hail from the far North?"

They would have continued to talk, had not the storm suddenly become way worse than it had been before. It was hard to hear the other over the roaring of the wind, therefore Birk gave up the effort entirely after few tries and sought shelter deeper in the woods. He did not meet the other Northman after that.