Stavanger Bay let the fire burn inside you

He heard the steady rhythm of footfalls against the earth as his paw was in action against the ash tree, satisfied that it's hard bark gave way to the tree's flesh beneath the sharp strike of his claws, a physical evidence to his fury. He'd been holding so much in for so long, and it felt good to vent it out. It went beyond the blatant pissing on his family by digging up Ragnar's grave, and stealing (and gods knew what else) his skeleton. That was much of it, the final tipping scale on a shit mountain that had been gradually accumulating over time. This was just the push forward that he needed to fully accept what it meant to be a viking; a Loðbrok. Ragnar might no longer linger in the corporeal world, instead feasting and fighting in Valhalla but as Kjalarr looked to the Allfather Odinn to guide him, he would look to his father, as well. He could see neither but in the very figments of his dreams but that did not make their guidance any less useful to him.

The female ...no male? Kjalarr wasn't immediately sure and too caught up in the heat of his anger to much care. All he knew was someone had walked in on his venting process, and proceeded to jest about it. As if this were a laughing matter. He turned on her, quick, taking rapid breaths, head rising in a dominate posture, a low warning growl rumbling in his chest as he noted her eerie smile upon her face. This only served to annoy him further — which was not something the young Berserker needed at the moment. He had enough fuel for his fire without this rat brown stranger adding to it. “I'm in no mood for jests,” Kjalarr warned. Oh, he was in a mood alright. A mood that had him itching to tear the face off of something. Preferably one of the guilty but at this point anything within his reach was promptly fair game.