Sawtooth Spire we have built cathedrals out of spite and splintered bone

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Kjalarr does not linger in Great Bear Wilderness for it is too much like remaining in the belly of the beast. Leaving behind his son is unbearably hard and he misses the boy with a ferociousness that almost convinces him to turn back, to steal away his boy from whatever Neverwinter Forest has turned into. It is not recognizable to the viking any longer, none of his family remains. He does not blame them. They did not trust Ondine and yet he foolishly had put her upon his throne in the belief that she would earn their trust. He is bitter, as if the salt of Stavanger Bay, his birth place, has seeped into his veins despite that he has not returned in many months, perhaps it has even been a year. He believes his birth place, his birth right still bears the claim of wolves who think that it belongs to them just because they can piss upon it’s borders. A wound that has not healed, yet ignorance born of his inability to travel. Kjalarr had only ever wished to be like Ragnar but twice he was Alpha and twice he fails.

He ignores the warnings of the jagged teeth of the Sawtooth when he makes his way into it’s heart, staying to the green and waterways whilst keeping clear of it’s towering peaks. He has climbed to reach this place: this treasure trove hidden by the protected teeth the earth. He is no mountaineer but he likes the territory more than he initially thought he would and thus he lingers, taking up a residence. At least until he can figure out where to go from here. For now, Sawtooth is his respite, the clean mountain air refreshing, the mountain goat plentiful and the water crisp and cool.

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