Sawtooth Spire there is no hourglass, only sand

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The sable woman bears a pack scent upon the tendrils of her pelage, it wafts around him: of salt and sea and for a moment it reminds him fiercely of Stavanger Bay. Of Ankyra Sound. The ache in his chest is a harsh stab but it abates as quickly as it rises. Twice his home has failed upon the coast. The Bay during his time spent away from his family and the Sound a few months after Caiaphas’ death. His future, he knows, is not on the coast. He believes it is here on Sawtooth, at the convergence of the Gods. The Norns have led him here and whether the path he believes they have set before him comes to fruition or not remains to be seen. He is hopeful. His tenacity is great and utterly unyielding. Glacial caribbean gaze assess her unbidden, pupils narrowing within polar irises as she responds. She does not rise to his demands, instead places her own inquiry before him. There is a bird-like cant of his head and a small, coy smirk that tugs at the edges of his lips. “They are just questions,” The scarred northman responds coyly with a simple rise and fall of broad shoulders, lilting accent fills the air between them. Two can play at that game. Whether Kjalarr inherited his father's natural skill for it yet remains to be seen.

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