Stavanger Bay let the fire burn inside you

He knew to be weary of the coast, knew that a pack — the pack that Caiaphas had spoken of at the meeting lingered here like unwanted parasites but he wasn't afraid of them, and Stavanger Bay was clear of scent markings. Not that it would have done much to stop him; it had been his home once, long before these scum had taken up residence here; perhaps before they even had come to these Wilds. He didn't know if any truth rang in his thoughts or not, and frankly didn't care. He'd been busy lately, saying goodbyes to his family, with patrolling Saltwinter's borders and ensuring that it's caches were kept after that he had little time to swing by Ragnar's grave. For this, he felt bad. He had promised that he would make an effort to keep after it and he had made good on it but life had gotten in his way.

Easily, the young and scarred Loðbrok made his way towards the tallest ash tree in Stavanger Bay, making the trek through the thick ash woods. He'd done it many times, knew this territory so well once more that he could probably walk it in his sleep. Dusk had begun to fall when he'd set out and the velveteen dark of night was still in the cusp of it's youth, the moon his guidance of light, much softer on his monochromacy then the harsh light of the sun. These days, Kjalarr was all but nocturnal and he didn't particularly mind haunting the night. His steps slowed subconsciously as he approached, a mix of scents, some familiar but most of them foreign causing the hackles on the nape of his neck to bristle with unease. Without being sure why dread began to pool in his stomach like ice. 

At first, he couldn't quite make sense of the hole in the ground where the mighty Jarl's mound of grave had been. Slowly, the puzzle pieces began to click together in his head and he rushed towards it with a “No,” Wrenching itself from his lips, a harsh whisper drawn forth as he examined the grave before he dug, claws scraping against the hardened earth to no avail. Nothing remained of Ragnar's skeleton, the grave devoid of the legend it had once sheltered. The memorial his mother, he and Floki had worked so hard on. Would Ragnar care? Kjalarr didn't have an answer but the image of the phantom of his dreams, large, scarred to hell with an empty eye socket licking with fire flashed in his mind's eye. It didn't matter because he cared.

Anger swelled within his breast, hot and uncontrollable and he let out a loud snarl, though it did little to vent the rage he felt brewing under his skin. He let out another snarl and lashed out at the ash tree, claws slicing through the bark of the Yggdrasil doppelganger, scarring and consequentially marking the tree as a warning, wishing feverishly that it was the face of whom ever had done this to his father ...to his family. It would seem that with Ragnar's death the tales of their family, of their brutality had became nothing then that: tales. Kjalarr sought to remedy that. He would have blood for this, but first he had to deduce who was responsible for it.