Sawtooth Spire light be sinister

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He is quiet as she speaks and remains so. She is not wrong. He is assessing her — it is only their nature, after all. He has yet to decide what she is, how he is to think of her. He wonders if he once sounded how she sounds: superior, marking herself higher than wolves she does not yet know. It nearly makes him cringe. Yet, he is nothing short of a hypocrite. He still grows, he still learns even in adulthood but his conceit goes no where, not truly. It is hid behind false masks of compassion and a desire to poke and pry for information until curiosity becomes invasive but he knows he bears the arrogance of Ragnar’s heir. If he did not he knew he would not be here. He would have rested and moved on, lowered himself to groveling to the packs of the Wilds (that he is welcome at) until one of them agreed to take him and his son when he returns with him. Kjalarr does not gravel, does not beg; in that simple truth is his answer. He cannot humble himself, not even when the life of his son lingers in the balance.

“I will build it,” He declares with a grandiose gesture of muzzle and accompanying flick of his tail against his hocks. “I will spread the word and I will only accept those who can and are willing to prove they will become Viking, they will merge into the culture and religion like they have always known it but they have to prove their worth. To me. To the Gods.” Conversion in Kjalarr’s mind was not just slapping a title to oneself. It was becoming the culture, the religion. Living and breathing it. And when the time was right he would return to take his son, to bring his son home — whether it was on this Spire or elsewhere. Kjalarr had made a promise, after all.

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