Sawtooth Spire there is no hourglass, only sand

[table width=85%][tr][td]

If not for the woman’s small series of defiant barks she might have slipped beneath the norseman’s radar. His attention is on one of Sawtooth’s many waterways, lapping at the cool, refreshing water cleaned by earth and smooth honed stone. It chases down the fox he had devoured recently, it’s blood still dribbled on the platinum silver of his chin. His head rises, ears alert atop his skull as her barks reverberate off Sawtooth’s citadel walls. He has made his “bedding” here where the jagged peaks rise like truculent teeth of Midgard. He sleeps beneath the stars for the most part close enough to an outcropping of rock to seek for shelter when necessary but otherwise content with the small amount of shelter a nearby gnarled tree offers him. Salmon pink tongue swipes across his jowls to catch the droplets of water and clean the macabre mess he had previously left behind.

It does not take him long to find her for she stands out a bit like a sore thumb amidst the green, stone grey and brown coloration of Sawtooth. Her pelage is the color of a raven’s. Like Huginn or Munnin, he thinks. His approach is weary, with hackles raising along his nape and dorsal, a slight rise to his tail. He cannot lay official claim to Sawtooth but it has been his home for near two weeks and he has no intentions of departing it any time soon. He does not foresee his plans changing any time soon. “Who are you?” The words become redundant as he demands them over and over with each stranger that finds their way to Sawtooth where he lingers as it’s sentinel despite that both he and the spire are free. “Why are you here?” Kjalarr considers that perhaps he should alter his words from time to time so it does not feel like an interrogation he has done a thousand times but they are simple questions and ones that demand to tell him what his nose cannot.

[/td][/tr][/table]