Sawtooth Spire light be sinister

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The storm rages outside the outcropping of rock that the northman has takes refuge beneath though it does not protect him from the spray of rainwater that carries on the wind. In the midst of Thor’s rage Kjalarr thinks of his failings: of Saltwinter’s disbanding and of giving Neverwinter Forest to Ondine where she has chased away all that made it Neverwinter and instead made it into a stranger that he did not recognize. It ceased to be home. He reflects that things were handled poorly in both packs, that perhaps he is not and never will be the great leader that his father was. He grasps for a legend that is not and never was his. He is not Ragnar. He is Kjalarr; and perhaps Saltwinter and Neverwinter Forest have failed because they were not his. Not really. He did not build them up and they did not reflect him, his beliefs, his culture, his laws. He tried to adhere to what was already there and it begins to make sense to him that all along both were destined to fail because he was not Scimitar and he was not Caiaphas. He can’t make himself into someone and something he isn’t. It is a lesson he has taken too long to learn but now that he has learned it he plans to utilize it.

Ears cup forth atop the crown of his skull as he picks up footfalls over the rains and the thunder, the stinging and heated hiss of lightening as it strikes from the heavens, leaving a lingering scar upon the sky before it fades. Someone approaches. He holds no claim to Sawtooth Spire but it has been his home for many days now and territorial as ever Kjalarr rises to his paws, piercing and glacial Caribbean blue eyes sweeping the deluge of downpour as platinum silver hackles bristle, guard hairs along his spine rising as electricity lingers in the air from the most recent strike of lightening. It strikes far away and sometimes closer to the peak of Sawtooth but it is close enough for Kjalarr to swear he feels it on the air. He takes a ghosts forward at the very edge of the outcropping he lingers beneath and when the other comes into his view — a mixture of creams against the dark stone, emerald greens and deep browns of the small oasis within the bowels of the Spire it is hard to miss her.

He strides out into the rainstorm to meet her, drinking in what he can of her scent as black, leathery nostrils flare. The smell of damp earth is strong but her perfume is unique and woman, devoid of any illness that would otherwise cause the viking to chase her off. “Who are you?” He asks her, accented voice rising to drown out the rumbling storm overhead. “Why are you here?” They are old questions and ones that should not come from a crownless kongungr within an imaginary kingdom but he asks them anyway because old habits die hard and the truth remains that Kjalarr has no intentions of relinquishing his ways despite of circumstances.

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