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

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She speaks that she means no harm and the berserker barely resists the urge to snort; he can hold his own in a fight but more than that he fights like the Northman he is: like a demon with no fear of death. To die in battle is the most glorious way to go, it would see him to the hall of Valhalla where he would be reunited with his father whose death was untimely. A murder. A crux never to be concluded. The woman shows him submission — not as much as he would admittedly like but it is enough to salve the worst of his aggression and the viking accepts it with a flare of nostrils and the smooth of his bristled guard hairs. The desire to speak that Sawtooth Spire is his and that he is not a charity burns to roll off of his tongue but he has nothing but his own presence to back his claim. It is not his. Not yet. The Ragnarsson has been an Alpha — and following his relinquish of his throne a recluse — for too long. The god named man refuses to relinquish the power he once wielded and is not even sure that the knowledge that he has to find a pack to support his too young son is enough to force him. Arrille isn’t even with him — his son remains behind in what he hopes is the safety of Neverwinter Forest but Kjalarr puts no stock behind that feeble lie he tells himself. Neverwinter Forest is a stranger and the wolves he has left Arrille to are all strangers …even his ex.

She speaks well, he notes. Diplomatic. Glacial gaze examines her once more, slower this time as he takes stock of her, drawing in her scent deeper with flared nostrils. She does not smell of illness. “Kjalarr,” The Northman speaks his name to her simply. “Sawtooth Spire has been my heim —” Kjalarr pauses for a moment realizes the word had slipped from betwixt his lips in the language of his father. “— my home for a few days now.” He corrects himself and informs her with a swipe of his tail against his hocks. For the most part Kjalarr has remained undisturbed here; except for now. “I suppose I can share it for a night.” The viking concludes. Sawtooth Spire is a territory vast enough to hold a pack, after all; there is nothing that states they have to be in a close proximity to one another.

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