Stavanger Bay let the fire burn inside you

“Couldn't have been long ago,” Kjalarr spoke in a contemplative tone, glimpsing down at the up-heaved dirt beneath his paws, kicking some of with a swipe of his front, left paw a low rumble vibrating through the chords of muscle in his throat, before his icy and silvery caribbean gaze lifted back up to the loner before him, content to study and to scrutinize. “My twin and I regularly came to tend to it.” In memory of their last father. Through the anger he felt still pulsing in his veins he realized there was an archaic and harsh sorrow that the one thing that Floki and him had decided to do together was useless now. Without Ragnar's grave there was nothing but the stupid ash tree that now had ugly lesions by his own doing in his venting; nothing worth tending to anymore; and perhaps nothing for them to reconcile with each other. Kjalarr hadn't wanted to cut Floki from his life, nor Wildfire, nor Thistle. Charon ...well Charon could fall off of Moonspear and impale himself and Kjalarr wouldn't give a rat's ass; but it was his other family that he hadn't sought to extract himself from. He'd hoped that he could spend time with them ...not anywhere near Moonspear. Kjalarr would never return there as long as Charon had it's reigns. 

“Don't be stupid,” Kjalarr snapped, with a stiff roll of his eyes. “You can't drink saltwater.” Did she know nothing of the sea? “Who said you could rest here? Why would you want to?” Kjalarr let out a low hiss, baring his teeth. “The great Jarl's soul is full of unrest and seeking vengeance. He will kill any who trespass in this territory. This bay remains his; just as he did when he walked among the living. Except now you won't see him coming,” Kjalarr's voice had dipped low, determined to set the eerie ambiance. The ash trees were ancient and as Thistle had said Ragnar had once claimed, Kjalarr, too, could feel the heartbeat of the Gods beneath the hard earth. It had seen the death of the greatest Jarl to ever live, but it had also seen the birth of his children — of Kjalarr himself. “Not until it's too late.” Of course this was a load of bullshit, a saga that he felt inspired to spin just as his ancestors and kin were very good at doing; but she didn't know that Ragnar was feasting and fighting in Valhalla and Kjalarr had no qualms about taking care to ensure that wolves avoided this territory, even though it was too late to salvage Ragnar's skeleton.