Neverwinter Forest Hear Hear!

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The soft mewls of his son brought to the Viking’s visage a smile. Though the grief of having to kill his daughters hung with him despite that he knew Ragnar and Odin had accepted them to Valhalla he found his happiness in the developments of his son. His living child; all the while hoping that the pain of sacrificing his daughters would cease to hurt. He did not strive to forget them but he sought to end the pain, the regret. The chill of his heart helped. Clinging to his Gods and their “savage” ways helped. Ragnar told him in his nightmares that he was no viking, and each time Kjalarr protested the guttural words roared in his head and echoed now during his waking hours: then be a viking; you have grown too soft. Too soft. Yet even a Viking was allowed to love his family, to love his children. The borders were silent as he expected them to be and his thick, platinum silver fur was covered in a layer of snow that clung to it as he shrugs into the mouth of the den, confident that no one would be trespassing any time soon and wanting to spend some time with his family.

“My wife,” Kjalarr murmurs in a low rumble of a greeting as he makes to offer Ondine an affectionate nudge to her cheek before he looks down to Arrille. He was still small, but definitely growing. “My son.” The scarred northman breaths the words like a trembling prayer, looking to touch his nose to the boy’s back if he did not first squirm out of the way in his efforts to reach Ondine’s face as it appeared he was trying to do.

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