Deepwood Weald while I burst into flames

Valtyr's head lowered with his jaw clenched as the stranger approached, half-abashed by the fast that he witnessed such a poor performance. The Sveijarn's passive nature was already worn thin by the famine (though he did not realize the stakes were so high, just yet) and hardly wished for jeering commentary from some rando passerby. His desires were not heard, however, and the old vagrant approached just the same.

'Great,' Val thought as his gaze drifted over the approaching company. He was sturdy-looking, but aged — silver agouti pelt motteled with some gnarly scars. An old, byronic warrior who was, seemingly, traveling alone with a stiff-legged gait. If only Valtyr had been born gray, one might by able to recognize the family resemblance between the two. Even though more graceful features were given by his mother, Njal's mark was heavy upon the young man. From the chiseling of his skull and stature, to the shape of his eyes and the grizzled agouti of his pelt... However, not a twinkle of recognition shone in the boy's eyes, even though he was looking straight at his father. 

How could there be? He had been so young when they had become separated. Not even names had stuck - apart from the vague memory of Maera, Larus, and Jokull.  Tuwawi and Njal had always been, simply, Mom and Dad. 

"I'd like to see you try and catch it," Valtyr retorted as he eyed the leg the old man was favoring. "Came by hardly any scraps on my way up here. Nothing for miles." He slouched down onto his haunches, out of breath from the chase and hungry from traveling.