Ankyra Sound you're just a ghost

maybe any of his pack mates he hasn't met yet? :0 but open for anyone who wants it~ <3 successful hunt roll

Night had begun to settle over the barren wasteland that had quickly become the Teekon Wilds, and in the comfort that the dark offered the Viking's monochromacy he had exited The Grotto and begun his routine evening patrols. The skeletal limbs, spindly and naked from the devastation of the swarm rattled against one another, scraping in a way that chilled Kjalarr to the bone. There was not much that the Northman could claim he was afraid of: not truly of death, per say, not since he believed as vehemently as his father before him that when he passed the valkyries would come to escort him to Odin's hall: Valhalla — but admittedly, starving to death was not one of his top priorities. Death in battle was the only true way for a Viking to go, not wasting away to nothing in the famine that wrought itself upon them. He hunted as often as he could, even turning to fishing despite that he wasn't a fan of what had probably became something of his staple as of late. Occasionally, he would make the trek to Coconut Grove to bring what feeble remains of coconuts he could but they, too, ceased to grow without the proper nourishment of their trees and while he did not think he'd picked the territory clean others had no doubt found it and dined upon the meat of the fruit-nut.

They all struggled and most of what he was able to catch went to the pack's caches, though he did not expect his meager findings to linger long. The pack that Caiaphas, James and him had went to had not delivered upon their side of the bargain and they crossed Kjalarr's mind often. Not because he cared about them in any capacity — but because they should be made to suffer at the tooth of Saltwinter for their incompetence and for ignoring the stake that Caiaphas had set; but besides attending to his duties as Beta, patrols and hunting Kjalarr had found that there was little time for anything else. Keeping Saltwinter as fed as he could manage was the most important, but also it didn't hurt to keep himself fed, as well.

Scarred muzzle wrinkled in slight distaste as he tore at the scales of the fish he'd managed to catch (having taken a break from his patrols), having became quite a proficient fisherman as of late. It was by and far, not anywhere near his favorite thing to eat but the more he forced himself to eat of them, the less abysmal they had begun to taste and eventually he found that he was numb to the overpowering saltiness and stink that accompanied them. It was food and that counted for something.