Stavanger Bay Well it's too late

*snags for Kja* ;-)

He was not sure what initially drew him from the shores of Saltwinter and back to Stavanger Bay. After he'd discovered Ragnar's empty grave he knew he had no real reason for ghosting the territory that had seen his birth. There was no reason to return to it for he knew that Ragnar's bones were not going to magically be returned to the grave they had been excavated from; and in truth it mattered little. The Jarl was feasting in the halls of Valhalla, he did not care what had become of his corporeal body. Regardless, Kjalarr found himself wandering, perhaps in the hopes of catching those who were responsible. Leaving his grace upturned was reckless, arrogant and though it meant nothing to Ragnar, he felt the sting of insult in his father's place. The grave was as empty as the day he'd discovered it and just as the young Berserker was about to head back to Saltwinter, discerning that today would not be the day he would discover clues as to who was responsible that he caught a strange scent on a nearby tree.

His steps halted suddenly, as if there were an invisible chain that yanked him back, kept him from going further. His head lowered to the ground, black leathery nostrils flaring as he sniffed eagerly at the scent. He should have been irate that someone had left a urine mark on one of the Bay's numerous and ancient ash trees and yet when the fur at the nape of his neck bristled it was not with hostility. The scent was not unpleasant albeit unlike anything he'd ever smelled before but it was distinctly wolf and female — through the intoxication he could discern that from the perfume. Without conscious thought Kjalarr's course altered and he moved at a stalking pace, a puppet to his instincts which urged and encouraged him to seek out the delectable scent's origin. 

He found her soon enough, silver as moonlight against the monochrome back drop. He sniffed at the air to confirm that he'd found the perfume's source and without any words approached her, a low rumble announcing his presence. It was a primal noise, an appreciating sound devoid of any hostility. No, he did not seek to chase her from him; instead he deigned to be close to her. A stranger. He did not understand it, as new as this archaic and feral instinct was to him but he did not resist it, and understood a simple truth that it didn't require him to think. 

He ghosted closer to her, his icy, silver tipped caribbean blue irises nearly swallowed whole by the abyss of his pupils, high off of the scent her divine body was giving off; as if Freyja the queen of valkyries had descended from Asgard and had taken the form of this woman before him.