Neverwinter Forest there was a thousand storms in his eyes

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Cypress’ raw and desperate call stopped Kjalarr’s blood cold and his steps faltered to a cease, his head snapping around in wild search for his younger brother, his hackles bristling with unease as his weight shifted with the urge to actively seek out his brother whom he assumed to be in danger. So long as he drew breath he swore that none would hurt Cypress, turning his eyes to the grey sky for a moment uttering a wordless prayer to Odinn before his gaze snapped back to the ground as the dark Frostfur barged through the trees. Immediately, the poignant scent of blood hit Kjalarr like a wall and his lip curled back over his teeth as he searched wildly behind Cypress for any sign of pursuit and when he saw none he turned icy Caribbean gaze to his brother, noting the wound across his mouth in a partial Glasgow grin.

“Cypress!” The boy’s name as it tore itself from the viking’s lips was slightly breathless, raw with unbidden worry as the northman’s legs carried him towards the night dappled boy. “What has happened? Who did that to you?” The viking demanded fussing over him, wishing that he’d had his mother’s talent for healing. Alas, Kjalarr was not crafted for saving lives: only for ending them. He was a Berserker under the rule of Odin and Thor, and though he knew the wealth in Freyja and Frigga’s healing knowledge their talents evaded him.

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