Ravensblood Forest from wars that you waged

sw pack prompt — cache crisis

Never before could Kjalarr recall seeing the caches so utterly barren. In the stead of stores they were filled with dirt, perhaps a few bones but there was nothing substantial for them to eat. The prey, as of late, had been scarce and Kjalarr was quick to jump to the assumption and slap the blame on the influx of packs that had packed close to Ankyra Sound. Too many wolf packs so close together had likely been the culprit of warding off their prey herds that Saltwinter counted upon to sustain them. On few occasions Kjalarr had seriously considered suggesting raids to Caiaphas: that they steal from the wolves that have stolen from them. Kjalarr didn't care if other packs lived or if they died off: their survival wasn't even a consideration. It was his own survival and the survival of Saltwinter that mattered the very most to the viking. Saltwinter mattered to him as, generally, did the wolves that made up it's ranks even if the only one he really knew to any sort of degree was Caiaphas and vaguely James and Maude.

It was the search of food that brought him to the darkened depths of Ravensblood Forest. Overhead they let out their shrill calls but this was a good sign to Kjalarr whom did not see the birds as death omens but rather as a sign that Odinn was watching him, or perhaps even, near. The forest was darker in the throes of the velveteen night but Kjalarr was hardly afraid of the dark. He lived in a world of varying shades of black white and gray. Darkness was his even playing ground in which he was on visual par with every normal wolf. His steps slowed as he shrugged into the treeline, pausing once to sniff at sticky sap that oozed from the tree trunks. His stomach give a slight rumble and for the briefest of moments he was tempted to taste it but resisted. He was no botanist and wasn't sure if it was safe or not and so continued forth, his head dipping to the ground to sniff at the loose bracken under foot, the warm aroma of numerous woodland creatures alerting his senses. The small woodland creatures were not much, admittedly, but if nothing else they were better than nothing. Still, he continued forth hoping for something a bit more substantial for a pack, something larger but within his capabilities of taking down on his lonesome.

I'm probably rusty as crap but thought this would be a good first thread with this new character.  Kjalarr looks awesome! :D

Kelso hadn't been here for long, but he could already see that the famine which had plagued him for the past weeks hadn't had much mercy on these lands either.  Everywhere he looked, he saw naked branches clawing desperately at the heavens as if begging for redemption.  He hadn't seen many wolves, and the few he'd glimpsed fleeting between shadows had had the skeletal look of starving wraiths.  He had felt the famine's effects himself as well; he was already a skinny wolf as it was, but the recent lack of food had wasted away the meat on his lean frame and left him with a perpetual gnawing hunger in his belly.  There were angles and knobs where there was ordinarily smooth muscle, and his ribs stood out in low relief against his sides.  

His ceaseless searching for even the tiniest scrap of meat had led him this night to a dark and foreboding wood.  Somewhere in the darkness overhead he heard the coarse, grating calls of crows, and his mouth watered as he imagined how nice they'd taste right about now.  He went a few more steps, silent as a ghost, until a motion at the edge of his vision caught his attention.  His head whipped up, ears swiveled forward and dark eyes staring into the shadows, anticipating prey.

psh, your post was perfect! and thank you so much!!! <3

There was never a moment in which Kjalarr had ever considered the ravens as food, despite the pain of hunger that was quickly becoming not only an annoyance, it was also a persistent pain. Pestilence had swept through their home and starvation was more of a real threat to Kjalarr than it had ever before. Death was supposed to be celebrated by the Vikings ...yet Kjalarr couldn't help but wonder how selfish it was to not want to starve to death. According to Thistle's stories the only way into Valhalla was to die a glorious death: no doubt in battle. Yet, fighting hunger was not a battle that Kjalarr felt the Allfather would consider worthy. Idly, he contemplated just how far his search could take him and that if he kept walking the would eventually stumble across land untouched by the swarm and brimming with life and food; yet the consideration was banished as quickly as it snaked it's way into his mind. He was far too loyal to Caiaphas and beyond that he had a duty to Saltwinter and it's coywolf queen as their Beta.

Kjalarr thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye — though this was always hard for him to discern — as he shrugged through the tangles of spindly and naked underbrush, the sound of plush grass underfoot replaced by the 'crunch' of locust carcasses in stead. It made his attempts at being stealthy a challenge, but he got the suspicion that he wasn't alone. A gut, instinctual feeling and a low warning growl rumbled in the viking's chest. “Who is there?” He inquired into the darkness, made skeletal by the bones of the trees stripped bare, some small part of him hoping it was large prey that he could hunt and bring back to Saltwinter for her wolves to eat.

For the space of a few silent breaths he stood frozen where he stood, listening.  Here, the faint, feather-light brush of a paw against leaves and other detritus that littered the earth.  There, the soft exhalation of breath over the whisper of breeze and the cacauphony of ravens.  He knew he wasn't alone, and that whatever was out there was just as aware of his presence as he was of its.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice came through the trees, dark and rich and preceded by a rumbling that sounded more like a distant thunderstorm than a mere growl.  At least he knew it was a wolf he was dealing with now, even if that growl (which sounded like it came from the throat of something enormous) made him want to make tracks in the opposite direction.  Being a wuss wouldn't get food in his belly, so he took a second to get his shit together and then responded, "I mean no harm -- I'm just looking for food."  His eyes swept the darkness and there, on the other side of a thick stand of black trunks, he thought he saw a white form.  "If you're as hungry as I am, perhaps we'd have better luck if we hunted together?"

If there was one thing that worked to assuage Kjalarr's inherent suspicions of wolves that were not Floki, the Frostfurs or of Saltwinter it was that everyone was feeling the effects of the famine that now plagued their homes, and all would begin to wane in their strength. His physical bulk had once been one of his most relied upon qualities, if for nothing than intimidation factor alone. Soon, he would thin as the famine wore on and he would loose it, thus he had to get more creative. More glacial in his approach of the outside world, but cleverness was not something that his family lacked by any means of the word and he was confident that he would find a way to maintain his intimidation factor even as pestilence would begin to test the fight he had inside him. The voice sounded from his left and the Norseman's head turned in the direction of the voice, shrugging through the skeletal trees, his eyes making out a monochrome silhouette against the darkness and moonlight that worked in some celestial unison.

The offer made itself known: a peace treaty of sorts, it sounded like to the viking. They could work together to try to find some food. Suspicion followed in the wake as Kjalarr held to his impartial silence a moment longer, hesitating. Two was better than one, this was something Kjalarr understood on a level that transcended his logical understanding: thinking of his (nearly) identical twin Floki. “We could,” Kjalarr drew, but he continued after a brief musing pause, “I need something to take back to my wolves.” Because his duty would always be to the wolves of Saltwinter first and foremost. Kjalarr wanted this stranger to understand that this might present a challenge or a possible dispute and that if he wanted, he could renege on his offer without insulting the Viking.

Kelso understood the implication in the stranger's words -- this wolf had a pack, and he hunted for them.  It was possible that this entire arrangement could turn out to be a costly waste of his time; assuming they captured some small creature, the stranger would no doubt snap it up and run, leaving Kelso hungrier than he'd been before they ever began and weaker for the expended effort.  

But what if they got lucky?  What if they stumbled upon something larger -- a deer, perhaps, or an elk?  Alone, a wolf had a snowball's chance in hell of taking down anything of that size.  But with a capable partner, the two of them could...

"My name is Kelso and I have no pack," he replied after a moment's consideration, picking his way through the scrub and roots toward the strange wolf.  "Just let me have a bite or two, and the rest is yours."  He knew there would be no promises made, but it was worth a shot.  When he emerged from the trees into full view of the stranger, he saw a huge and majestic wolf whose white fur glowed like a moonlit glacier and whose pale eyes were as cold and cutting as sea ice.  Kelso was suddenly aware of how relatively puny he was.  He was a lot skinnier than this guy, not to mention shorter.  He abruptly found himself hoping that this dude wasn't hungry enough to eat another wolf...

At this point, the Viking was content to let the silence hang between them — give the loner a chance to decide whether he wanted to team up with Kjalarr or decide against it. The Northman had given his warning fair and true: so that if it would come down to it, there was an understanding of where any potential hostility came from. And if there was one thing that Kjalarr was good at it was hostility. The loner offered his name and what had been apparent enough to Kjalarr's sense of smell: he ran alone. “Kjalarr, Beta of Saltwinter.” Came his own gruff return of introductions. It had been ...some time since he'd conversed out of his very small and very select social circle — and was fairly certain that the last stranger he'd conversed with he told her she could leave her baby to die since she, pregnant at the time, hadn't seemed all that interested in wanting the life that had grown within her. Idly, Kjalarr wondered if she'd given birth yet and if she'd let the consequence of her “fooling” around to die or not, but disregarded it as quickly as it came. He didn't really care about her or what she'd done with her baby, in the end.

Kelso spoke that all he wanted was a bite or two and that Kjalarr could have what was left of whatever they managed to scrounge up together. For a moment, the Northman contemplated the bargain, not inherently all that trustful. “Fine,” The Viking conceded. “but if we manage to catch anything at all and you take more than your bite or two,” Kjalarr emphasized the quote. “I'll be taking you back to Saltwinter as food.” Kjalarr would fight for it — if he had to. He couldn't necessarily claim that he was willing to turn cannibal but Kelso didn't know that.