Sawtooth Spire light be sinister

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“How would you decide if prospect wolves had this spark or not, hmm?” Kjalarr asks her, mulling over her words. Kjalarr, whom more often than not lives in the are a of grey between black and white knows that life simply isn’t as simple as she deigns to make it. He is not a cannibal but he has partaken in acts of cannibalism during the famine; grey. Most of his childhood and into his early adult hood had spent seeing the world in varying degrees of grey it only seems logical to him that grey is a very important part of the world that would otherwise be stark white or black. There was good and there was evil and there was perspective. “Or is that something the Gods would decide?” He inquires with a cup of his ears atop his skull in muted curiosity. “In a territory upon the coast called Stavanger Bay.” It matters little now, he knows. His time spent as leader did not afford him much opportunity to travel, nor did his time going from leader straight to fatherhood. Arrille had needed constant attention and supervision for the first couple months of his life.

“I’ve already told you,” The viking draws simply with a shrug of broad shoulders and a twitch of scarred muzzle. “I am going to claim this Spire and raise what my father couldn’t.” A pack of vikings. Ragnar had tried but he had not enforced his customs and culture and religion and to Kjalarr that had been his father’s grievous mistake.

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