Ravensblood Forest from wars that you waged

If there was one thing that worked to assuage Kjalarr's inherent suspicions of wolves that were not Floki, the Frostfurs or of Saltwinter it was that everyone was feeling the effects of the famine that now plagued their homes, and all would begin to wane in their strength. His physical bulk had once been one of his most relied upon qualities, if for nothing than intimidation factor alone. Soon, he would thin as the famine wore on and he would loose it, thus he had to get more creative. More glacial in his approach of the outside world, but cleverness was not something that his family lacked by any means of the word and he was confident that he would find a way to maintain his intimidation factor even as pestilence would begin to test the fight he had inside him. The voice sounded from his left and the Norseman's head turned in the direction of the voice, shrugging through the skeletal trees, his eyes making out a monochrome silhouette against the darkness and moonlight that worked in some celestial unison.

The offer made itself known: a peace treaty of sorts, it sounded like to the viking. They could work together to try to find some food. Suspicion followed in the wake as Kjalarr held to his impartial silence a moment longer, hesitating. Two was better than one, this was something Kjalarr understood on a level that transcended his logical understanding: thinking of his (nearly) identical twin Floki. “We could,” Kjalarr drew, but he continued after a brief musing pause, “I need something to take back to my wolves.” Because his duty would always be to the wolves of Saltwinter first and foremost. Kjalarr wanted this stranger to understand that this might present a challenge or a possible dispute and that if he wanted, he could renege on his offer without insulting the Viking.