Sawtooth Spire there is no hourglass, only sand

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Polar, Caribbean gaze studies her sharply an abecedarian spark of beguile in the sharp shards of silver accenting the blue around his pupils. She is attractive — he would have to be blind not to see it — and the libertine feels no shame in his ways and has no true desire to change. It is some of why his marriage to Ondine dissolved so horribly. In part, it was her in what she allowed to happen to Neverwinter but it is equally his own fault, too. Kjalarr is not ready to settle down, not ready to commit for the long run though he tried (and failed) to do what was right by Arrille. There is a husky rasp to the umbra woman's voice that catches the scarred northman’s attention and draws him from his thoughts. “Perhaps,” Soon, he thinks. He hopes. Nothing is certain in life Kjalarr knows but he does know that even if he does not succeed in building an empire with Eshe that it is unlikely he will be easily uprooted from Sawtooth. It has become sacrosanct to him — a believed convergence of his Gods and he is possessive of it. Whether he can turn that possession towards what he seeks to accomplish is yet to be seen. Only the gods know and they have been infuriatingly vague and withholding with their knowledge. Even Kjalarr’s dreams have been vacant. Wisps of things that do not make sense to him and leave him with more questions than they do answers are all he receives. It is little more than white noise.

“What has brought you here? To brave the treacherous paths that bring you to the apex of the world?” For that is what it strikes him as sometimes: the apex between Midgard and the cosmos. His desires to climb the Sawtooth Spire are his own and he suspects vastly different from the lure of others.

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