Blackfeather Woods nothing but the burnt edge of an unfinished history

It is troublesome to Kjalarr to think that his son could be worse than him but he thinks it nevertheless. He’s done a lot of dumb things but he can say with certainty that he’s never brought a pack to ruin. He thinks of Neverwinter Forest after that thought, though, and thinks that perhaps even he cannot claim that. Perhaps he and Vaati are not so dissimilar after all and perhaps that means there is hope or perhaps it means that in the end the world could only tolerate one of them. Maybe, Kjalarr considers, if he was ever given the chance to be a father …and be an actual father to them a repeat of this could be avoided. He thinks of Arrille, the only son he’s had any influence on and wonders if that boy is even still alive. He’s made more mistakes than he’d care to admit and in his desire to be a better father than Ragnar somehow managed to be worse. “Not all of my children are like him.” Kjalarr speaks with confidence. Of course they aren’t because his two daughters were dead by him shortly after their birth and Arrille…well if he’s alive he’s not causing a fuss. Kjalarr thinks word would have gotten around by two terrors that looks like him if he were.

Kjalarr revels in her closeness: in the press of her body against his own as she leans against him. It’s nice to feel useful even if it’s just to be a pillow for the moment. “Yes, High Priestess,” Kjalarr murmurs. He is an acolyte eager to show his devotion, eager to atone. For the moment, his questions are done. He has asked enough, he thinks and does not wish to risk her ire by continuing them.

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