Sawtooth Spire light be sinister

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She gave her name to him aplomb. Eshe Fearlheart. Yet, it meant nothing to the northman who had never heard it before or even it’s like. At least, not her sirename. Her first name was all too familiar to the viking whom if had the capabilities of doing such would have paled. Platinum silver pelage keeps this from being visible but he does feel his heart drop to his stomach. Eshe had been the name of Scimitar’s second wife. Second and deceased, just as the man himself. Kjalarr did never gotten to meet his (adopted) step-mother and it is a fact that abhorrently haunts him. He doubts meeting her would have made a difference to their fates as both were stolen cruelly by a mighty bear but life is not without regrets and Kjalarr has plenty of them to learn from. “Kjalarr Lo∂brok.” He offers his own, including his father’s earned name passed down as a sirename from him to his children despite that he was not asked. It had been some time since he had included it for he feels Kjalarr speaks for itself. It is one of Odinn’s many names, after all; as if it is somehow proof that he is descendent from the king god as his father had once boasted.

“This is my home,” The viking declares to her, hackles weigh heavy with absorbed rainwater still they bristle like clumped spikes along his spine. His words are true in a sense. It is his home in the way that free territories are home to other lone wolves but it does not yet bear his scent nor his claim. That does not mean he will not try. “and when I gather those that will follow me, commit to my culture and religion I will claim it as mine.” The northman adds seeking to clarify. Kjalarr has no illusions that conversion will not be an easy task but he is willing to undertake it. He would see his father’s failed vision come to life: a truly viking pack instead of the mixing pot that Stavanger Bay had been. It is his fate. Kjalarr cannot say what draws and keeps him to Sawtooth Spire but it feels right. He feels the thrum of the Gods in the earth here, feels the heat of Mjölnir’s sparks as the anvil strikes from Thor’s forge. Sawtooth strikes him as the conversion point, sacrosanct. It is here he will fulfill his own legacy or die trying.

Eshe speaks that Sawtooth called to her and glacial Caribbean eyes take her in. She is petite and though her fur is soaked he can see the strong curvature of her body. It would take a blind man not to see that she is ethereal in her beauty even looking a bit like a drowned rat as he is sure he, too, looks. The scarred northman’s muzzle rises ever-so-slightly but not in any pretentious nature. “It calls to me, too.” He responds after a lengthy stretch of silence and he ponders what that means. Is she to be his competition? Or are their fates woven together in a different way? He does not know but all he can do is trust in the gods and trust that his legacy will far surpass his father’s own as his dreams have told him since he was a babe barely able to understand them.

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