Greatwater Lake and so the drum beats on

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Kjalarr does not stray too far from Sawtooth. It looms at his back, statuesque and jagged like the tooth of some ancient behemoth long dead. For the first time in weeks since he settled upon Sawtooth as his desired hearth he follows the waterways down to where they run freely into the river. He follows the serpentine trail until it bleeds out into a larger lake. Forlorn glance is cast towards Neverwinter Forest and he is tempted. Tempted to stride to the borders and demand his son from Ondine and the strangers that have consumed Neverwinter; not yet. He is not ready to rescue his son. He has no stability to offer him. He knows that he is selfish, that he should have went to the first pack upon the horizon and groveled. He is too arrogant, too selfish, too power hungry to humble himself. Footfalls catch his attentions and his gaze slides from the general direction of Neverwinter Forest, scarred muzzle bearing a fearsome scowl as his gaze finds the boy. “Arrille!” Kjalarr calls out on instinct but as he seeks to close the distance between his believed son and the boy the closing distance paints that this boy bears much more tan than Arrille and the viking hesitates. “Ah.” Kjalarr offers when he sees his mistake though it is no real apology. There is an undeniable resemblance to his son with Ondine that the guard hairs on Kjalarr’s nape bristle with uneasy. It is uncanny. Ondine was not the first woman in heat he’s slept with able to produce children but he pushes those thoughts away quickly. The pallid stranger had many before him and likely many after him and he doubted the odds of his seed having taken (despite the blatant evidence before him). “You look like my son.” Kjalarr points out simply to explain why he called this stranger by another name.

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