Neverwinter Forest there was a thousand storms in his eyes

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The calm explanation came and Kjalarr was silent, contemplative as Cypress filled in the blanks his rapid speech had left in it’s wake the first time. “It’s not his fault that they are dead, it’s not anyone’s fault.” Kjalarr stressed to Cypress, breaking his silence to interrupt his younger brother. He understood the weight of that guilt, he felt it every day with Whittier and Caiaphas and his drew his tongue against the inside of his teeth as he contemplated his own advice knowing that it would never be true unless he, too, took it. “We can not blame ourselves for the dead. Once you do you find ways to blame yourself for every death and it is a terrible burden to carry even if you had nothing to do with it.” He had not drowned Whittier or Caiaphas and without the comfortableness to believe they went to Valhalla as he did with Ragnar their deaths felt unresolved to Kjalarr. “You were not wrong. He hurt you and by asking you to lie he would hurt Allure and aunt Kaskara.” On Cypress’ words to Rannoch in regards to not wanting to hurt anyone else Kjalarr would not disagree. It was the truth even if it hurt Rannoch in return. The truth rarely felt good, but he had come to believe that the truth would eventually be respected when the sting of it vanished.

“I am not mad at you Cypress, and it is not my place to be angry at Rannoch.” He disagreed with the young boy’s choices but it was not his place. He made his decision and the consequences would be his to deal with whether Kjalarr ever had a hand in them or not. That was simply the way of the world. “You have to look out for yourself first and foremost Cypress. Despite how it was when you are younger you are not responsible for Rannoch or his actions. You’ll learn that in time.” Yet, Kjalarr understood. He had once sought to look out for Floki — still did to a lesser extent. The protectiveness he felt over his twin would never cease, he knew.

Cypress’ question drew Kjalarr’s ears forward, his marred muzzle lifting towards the grey sky for a moment as he drew in a chilled breath and let it out slowly. It was a heavy question and not one he had ever considered. Had he became stronger? He had felt the young boy he’d been as Jorunn was long dead, snuffed out the day the bear had tried to take his life and the sea almost succeeded. Kjalarr had done what he did best: he adapted. He grew and he changed and he accepted his father’s culture and Gods even if he remained untrained. “I had a dream, of a legend that looks like me without my markings, with scars upon his muzzle — like mine — the left side of his face and his throat mangled and marred and a missing eye. He spoke ‘Kjalarr’ to me in his guttural tongue. This continued for several nights. From that moment I became Kjalarr. Whether I feel stronger or not is…subjective, I guess. I simply know that I am no longer Jorunn and all that my biological family expects him to be. Jorunn died a long time ago even though I did not.” Whether he offered Cypress any insight or cleared anything up for his younger brother was unknown, but Kjalarr spoke the truth of his name.

“I don’t know everything Cypress. I only know what I have learned from my own mistakes, from my failures and my successes. You will learn plenty in your life, but we never know everything. Never have all the answers. You will always make mistakes but you learn from them and try to be better. That’s all you can do.” Kjalarr offered his brother with a gentle nudge to his cheek, attempting to comfort and silently communicate that he was there and he wasn’t going anywhere.

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