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

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Kjalarr’s head bows to the earth as he takes a few laps from the waterway nearest to him. It is a small drink but it is enough. His journey has been long and he is eager to put tentative roots to Sawtooth Spire, if only to take advantage of it’s temporary respite. It is not the first time Kjalarr has found himself alone, nor is it the first time he finds himself disassociated from a Family; except he has does not disassociate himself from his son. Kjalarr may be a young father but he knows he cannot claim custody of his son without a stable home for him. It is too dangerous otherwise, too foolishly risk the boy’s life. Kjalarr was an adult, he can take care of himself but Arrille is too young and Kjalarr alone is not enough to keep him alive. He’d been about his son’s age when he’d been swept out to sea, nearly drowned and then nearly died of starvation until Scimitar had found him. The sound of nearing footfalls draw his attention sharply and ears taper back to rest at half mast atop his skull as his lips quiver back from his teeth as the stranger comes into view: a woman draped in agouti fur. She is not at all familiar and the Berserker gives into the more feral instincts awoken by his lone status. He has nothing to be territorial over and so he lets his territoriality bleed onto the Sawtooth Spire. He was here first and therefore it is his (however temporarily). Habits of a konungr — regardless of how fallen and crownless he is — are insufferably hard to break (apparently, it runs in the family). Sharp, glacial glower fixates upon her as his lips part to speak his demand, “Who are you? What do you want?” in the lilting accent of the Northman, a low, warning growl rumbling in his broad chest.

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