Greatwater Lake and so the drum beats on

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The boy’s nonchalant retort causes Kjalarr to bite lightly down on his tongue though it does not keep the soft snort of indignation to push past the scarred northman’s black, leathery nostrils. I very well could be, the words burn his tongue, wanting to spill forth. He does not know for sure, of course but he suspects there are not a lot of wolves with his coloring or pattern of his pelage walking around the Teekon Wilds. Floki, obviously, but his brother does not strike him as the kind of man to have one night stands with women in heat. No doubt, his brother is much more stronger …and a better man than he. Kjalarr is a viking to his core and a man ruled by primal instinct to boot. He cannot help what he is and does not aspire to change. He is not Floki and though he will always admire his twin they will always be two very different wolves. The name the boy gives him is a strange one to the viking’s ears. Vaati. His maybe bastard son. Or perhaps it is simply conceit that derives that nagging. Perhaps his coloration and patterning is more common than he thinks (though admittedly he has yet to come across it in others that were not directly related to him). “No doubt,” The viking muses coyly with a ghost of a smirk flickering across his lips; by the gods though he is of the right age. Not too much older than Arrille. The months align in his head and he wonders…

“I am Kjalarr,” the scarred northman offers to the boy in exchange. “What are you doing so far from home, Vaati?” Kjalarr inquires ignoring the look the boy shoots him.

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