Gyrfalcon's Keep for the lives we've betrayed

It was no problem! I was glad to start it. c:

It was a methodical, perhaps even a menial task: cleaning the gyrfalcon of it's feathers and yet it kept him delightfully busy. It gave him something to focus upon despite how trivial and small it was. It proved a distraction from his own thoughts and any form of such was welcome. He did not necessarily strive to be alone with his guilt and grief and yet he did not necessarily want to share in it, either. Surely it was only Kjalarr that Whittier's death had affected and so the Viking strove to conceal his feelings on it for the lack of knowing what else to do. He simply needed time to work through it.

He grabbed another mouthful of feather and gave a particularly vicious tug, having to readjust his large paw so that it was atop the corpse to avoid being awkwardly smacked in the face by it. The feathers gave way from the flesh of the bird with a satisfying tearing noise that would have no doubt been painful if his catch would not have been among the legions of dead. It barely heard her footfalls over the calls of the avians above as they communicated with one another though her greeting did not go undetected by the Viking who glimpsed at her with a single eye as she ripped his attention from his task and drew him into the moment once more.

She was a pallid beauty with bright eyes whose color appeared to simply be some mix between silver and white to the Viking who did not see colors beyond white, black and the varying shades of grey in between. His head turned in her direction so that he might study her with both of his caribbean, starburst with silver around his pupils gaze. Black, leathery nostrils flared as he inhaled her scent determining that it was not one he was familiar with, but no doubt of a pack. “Hello,” The Viking returned her greeting soft and curious.