Sawtooth Spire we have built cathedrals out of spite and splintered bone

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Kjalarr does not linger in Great Bear Wilderness for it is too much like remaining in the belly of the beast. Leaving behind his son is unbearably hard and he misses the boy with a ferociousness that almost convinces him to turn back, to steal away his boy from whatever Neverwinter Forest has turned into. It is not recognizable to the viking any longer, none of his family remains. He does not blame them. They did not trust Ondine and yet he foolishly had put her upon his throne in the belief that she would earn their trust. He is bitter, as if the salt of Stavanger Bay, his birth place, has seeped into his veins despite that he has not returned in many months, perhaps it has even been a year. He believes his birth place, his birth right still bears the claim of wolves who think that it belongs to them just because they can piss upon it’s borders. A wound that has not healed, yet ignorance born of his inability to travel. Kjalarr had only ever wished to be like Ragnar but twice he was Alpha and twice he fails.

He ignores the warnings of the jagged teeth of the Sawtooth when he makes his way into it’s heart, staying to the green and waterways whilst keeping clear of it’s towering peaks. He has climbed to reach this place: this treasure trove hidden by the protected teeth the earth. He is no mountaineer but he likes the territory more than he initially thought he would and thus he lingers, taking up a residence. At least until he can figure out where to go from here. For now, Sawtooth is his respite, the clean mountain air refreshing, the mountain goat plentiful and the water crisp and cool.

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The cold of the Taiga has pushed Ynes further into the center of the Wilds. Her winter coat has begun to shed, albeit later in the season than most of her counterparts. As she pushes up onto a mountain range, her limbs loose against the changing altitude, it becomes clear to Ynes that she must soon find a place to settle. Although not a permanent settlement, she needs something to sustain her for a week or so until she can regain her bearings.

The scent of another streamlines into her nostrils, though she is confident that the other is far away enough from where she stands that she can continue on her way. Nonetheless, Ynes keeps her ears perked and her attention set on her surroundings.

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Kjalarr’s head bows to the earth as he takes a few laps from the waterway nearest to him. It is a small drink but it is enough. His journey has been long and he is eager to put tentative roots to Sawtooth Spire, if only to take advantage of it’s temporary respite. It is not the first time Kjalarr has found himself alone, nor is it the first time he finds himself disassociated from a Family; except he has does not disassociate himself from his son. Kjalarr may be a young father but he knows he cannot claim custody of his son without a stable home for him. It is too dangerous otherwise, too foolishly risk the boy’s life. Kjalarr was an adult, he can take care of himself but Arrille is too young and Kjalarr alone is not enough to keep him alive. He’d been about his son’s age when he’d been swept out to sea, nearly drowned and then nearly died of starvation until Scimitar had found him. The sound of nearing footfalls draw his attention sharply and ears taper back to rest at half mast atop his skull as his lips quiver back from his teeth as the stranger comes into view: a woman draped in agouti fur. She is not at all familiar and the Berserker gives into the more feral instincts awoken by his lone status. He has nothing to be territorial over and so he lets his territoriality bleed onto the Sawtooth Spire. He was here first and therefore it is his (however temporarily). Habits of a konungr — regardless of how fallen and crownless he is — are insufferably hard to break (apparently, it runs in the family). Sharp, glacial glower fixates upon her as his lips part to speak his demand, “Who are you? What do you want?” in the lilting accent of the Northman, a low, warning growl rumbling in his broad chest.

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It is all sudden; the switch into submission is immediate, though only enough of a show to keep the male's agression at bay. Her ears flatten back half way and her tail falls straight out, her knees bending only slightly as she takes a few steps back. I don't mean any harm, she assures him in a low tone, I didn't realize how close we were. Once there are an added few yards between them, Ynes slowly begins to straighten back up. 

I am Ynes, she tells him in a purely diplomatic tone, and I was looking for nothing more than a place to settle for the night. Food and water is all she needs, and in her current state, a fight is the last thing she needs. The brute looks much more skilled in the physical realm than she is, so she tries her hardest to convey these concerns.

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She speaks that she means no harm and the berserker barely resists the urge to snort; he can hold his own in a fight but more than that he fights like the Northman he is: like a demon with no fear of death. To die in battle is the most glorious way to go, it would see him to the hall of Valhalla where he would be reunited with his father whose death was untimely. A murder. A crux never to be concluded. The woman shows him submission — not as much as he would admittedly like but it is enough to salve the worst of his aggression and the viking accepts it with a flare of nostrils and the smooth of his bristled guard hairs. The desire to speak that Sawtooth Spire is his and that he is not a charity burns to roll off of his tongue but he has nothing but his own presence to back his claim. It is not his. Not yet. The Ragnarsson has been an Alpha — and following his relinquish of his throne a recluse — for too long. The god named man refuses to relinquish the power he once wielded and is not even sure that the knowledge that he has to find a pack to support his too young son is enough to force him. Arrille isn’t even with him — his son remains behind in what he hopes is the safety of Neverwinter Forest but Kjalarr puts no stock behind that feeble lie he tells himself. Neverwinter Forest is a stranger and the wolves he has left Arrille to are all strangers …even his ex.

She speaks well, he notes. Diplomatic. Glacial gaze examines her once more, slower this time as he takes stock of her, drawing in her scent deeper with flared nostrils. She does not smell of illness. “Kjalarr,” The Northman speaks his name to her simply. “Sawtooth Spire has been my heim —” Kjalarr pauses for a moment realizes the word had slipped from betwixt his lips in the language of his father. “— my home for a few days now.” He corrects himself and informs her with a swipe of his tail against his hocks. For the most part Kjalarr has remained undisturbed here; except for now. “I suppose I can share it for a night.” The viking concludes. Sawtooth Spire is a territory vast enough to hold a pack, after all; there is nothing that states they have to be in a close proximity to one another.

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There is an obvious inequality between the two of them, despite each being a wanderer in their own right. The male holds himself with a level of such prestige that it is obvious to Ynes (and perhaps any other wolves he had come across) that he is a leader, whether born or created. She refuses to allow him to see how intimidated she is by this aura of power, and rises slowly to attention, all the while making sure to avoid offense. It seems that he will allow her the night, which gives her enough time to sort out her plans. I am Ynes, she tells him, My home is in an eastern territory, far away from this region. 

A slight accent rings her words, though it is barely enough to be noticed. Ynes speaks this common tongue with a native-like fluency, albeit for the wrong reasons. You don' have to tell me where you come from, she assures him, showing a bit of her foreign origins with a slight mispronunciation. I can leave this side of the territory now if you would prefer to be alone.

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The woman introduces herself to him once more but Kjalarr does not capitalize upon the fact that she has already spoken her name. It doesn’t matter if she is redundant — it gives the northman a better chance at remembering her name and being able to place it with her face on the off chance that they will ever cross paths again. The Wilds are vast, after all. Seeming to stretch on forever though he does not truly grasp the idea of vast for he has only ever known the Teekon Wilds and his life is limited to it’s confines. He wanders but never to the world beyond. Why would he want to? Things are complicated enough here without adding to it. Ynes even offers him a tidbit of information he hadn’t asked for: where she comes from. The information is relative and vague but the crownless konungr tucks it away nevertheless. His lip curls slightly and a low mirthless chortle bubbles up from deep within his chest to slip from betwixt his lips as she speaks that he doesn’t have to tell her where he is from. Truth be told, Kjalarr wasn’t planning on it. It is none of her business and he does not understand what good it would do her anyway. Stavanger Bay remains but his home is long gone from that place. Neverwinter remains but it is no longer home to him, either. The closest thing to home Kjalarr has is the Sawtooth Spire but it does him little good for he has no claim to it.

Though the idea does not escape him. He could start anew, build something here. Resurrect what Ragnar had started but had never gotten to truly see come to fruition. He could build a viking pack. He had the means, he had the motive and more importantly he had he drive. “Where I am from does not matter,” The northman told her simply. “it is where I am going that is most important.” The past was useful only in it’s lessons but it did no good to look back because none of them were going that way. “Stay where you want, it does not matter to me.” He will not dictate to her where she should and should not stay: if she wished to stay on this side and endure his company then who was he to stop her? If she wished to go to the other side of the Spire then that was up to her as well.

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There is a slight air of one-sided discomfort between the two, so Ynes decides to do what she does best and perhaps lighten the mood. Because her partner seems to enjoy talk of philosophy and concepts more than concrete small talk, she entertains his tidbits of wisdom. So then Kjalarr, where are you going? Ynes wonders if he will interpret this as much less well-meaning than she had originally intended for it to be, and considers what a quarrel between them might entail. Rather than speaking up again, Ynes sits back and awaits his answer, if any.

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She asks him where he is going and though Kjalarr’s lips pull into a terse line at her inquisitorial question he only dithers upon his answer for a few seconds. He needs a home for his son because he fully intends on keeping his promise to the boy. He would be back for him and if he had to fight Ondine for the custody of Arrille he would. It was as simple as swallowing his pride and subjugating himself to whatever pack decided to take him in but conceit is hard to swallow. It does not go down like a smooth shot of whisky with only a temporary burn left to ache. It suffocates. He has known power for too long and he has no will to resist it’s galvanic, seductive siren song. He will build a home for his son, instead. He will build. More importantly, he will rule. “Where ever the gods take me,” He speaks critically, at first before he lets out a low sneer. “I will stay here.” Drawn by what he believes to be the convergence of his gods. The stone citadel is good a place as any to build a pack fit for Vikings. They exchange words for a few moments longer before the strangers split ways.

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