Blacktail Deer Plateau That Little Fallen Angel

Kjalarr had long since gotten used to the curious stares, mostly aimed at the ugly scars that cut across his otherwise handsome face and otherwise relatively untarnished appearance. They were the only scars  he bore and though their origin was born of his own idiocy and desire to prove that he was something more than what everyone saw him as. Only Charon had ever inquired as to how he had gotten them but it was not a story the young viking was ashamed of. He'd went toe to toe with a bear and survived to tell the tale — not once but twice. Clearly, this meant he was the favorite of Odin just as his father before him had been, Thistle had told him. 

She mirrored his movements, his posture — the curious tilt of his head, the wicked little simper that had tugged at the edges of his lips — and this was curious to the northman; though sometimes he recognized quite well, perhaps. His actions were more subconscious than they were anything else but during the times it was brought to his attention he realized that ever since his dream of Ragnar — where he'd been Ragnar — Kjalarr found him mimicking the actions his father done, even so far as to mimic his accent. “Guess?” The Scandinavian capitalized upon, speaking his inquiry aloud. “If you are not exploring, then what are you doing?” The question was spoken softly; uncharacteristic for the once (extremely) loudmouthed Loðbrok.