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

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She asks him where he is going and though Kjalarr’s lips pull into a terse line at her inquisitorial question he only dithers upon his answer for a few seconds. He needs a home for his son because he fully intends on keeping his promise to the boy. He would be back for him and if he had to fight Ondine for the custody of Arrille he would. It was as simple as swallowing his pride and subjugating himself to whatever pack decided to take him in but conceit is hard to swallow. It does not go down like a smooth shot of whisky with only a temporary burn left to ache. It suffocates. He has known power for too long and he has no will to resist it’s galvanic, seductive siren song. He will build a home for his son, instead. He will build. More importantly, he will rule. “Where ever the gods take me,” He speaks critically, at first before he lets out a low sneer. “I will stay here.” Drawn by what he believes to be the convergence of his gods. The stone citadel is good a place as any to build a pack fit for Vikings. They exchange words for a few moments longer before the strangers split ways.

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