Barrow Fields blood and wine

The moose evaded the twins — weak and slower from the famine — and though the bullheaded part of Kjalarr very much wanted to push himself to keep going his muscles were aching and his stomach was protesting and he knew that if he pushed the issue, if he pushed his body to the peak of it's limits he might be signing an early death, and there was nothing honorable in dying because of obstinacy and stupidity. He slowed to a stop, snorting at the moose's retreating form, panting from the exertion, bowing his head and swallowing the bitter pill of defeat. It did not go down smoothly but he accepted it and let it go with a roll of his shoulders. Two prey in the same day had gotten away from him, and it angered him and his failure combined with his hunger made him a bear (ha).

He rounded and padded back to Floki, having felt the ghost of his pain when his brother had taken the tumble. “Are you hurt bad?” The phantom pain wasn't enough for Kjalarr to determine the extent or what had exactly caused it since he hadn't actually seen it happen. Only felt the aftermath. “Let me see,” Although, his monochromacy didn't make Kjalarr the poster child for a good medic, admittedly; and not to mention his knowledge on healing did not extend beyond sea water to cleanse a wound (very much like Ragnar) he was concerned and wanted to assern for himself that Floki would be alright. Kjalarr's brows furrowed when his brother apologized and took the blame for the moose escaping them. “Why are you apologizing?” Kjalarr inquired softly, unable to understand. “Don't be ridiculous Floki, we're both half starving from the famine. The moose got lucky, that was all.” Kjalarr rounded his twin then and bumped his shoulder gently against Floki's own. “There will be other mooses...meeses? Moose?” Kjalarr's brow furrowed as he tried to decide which was the correct word and then let out a snort. “This famine can't last forever.” At least Kjalarr desperately hoped that it wouldn't.