Silver Creek he is beloved and he is feared

kjalarr's journey was long and from it's start to it's finish he is alone. kjalarr draws in a deep breath as he crosses into the threshold of the teekon wilds once more. it draws him back, like a siren draws in a sailor. it is his birthright and no matter how hard he tries he always finds himself returned. he follows the path of the forked creek, moving swiftly across it's bank, pausing only when the scent of prey diverts his attention. he is quick to move further into the wilds despite that he has no true destination in his mind; other than he knows he will not return to blackfeather woods. he is no captive. he is a son of ragnar. he is skrælingjar. he is a descendent of the allfather himself, if legend is to be believed ...and kjalarr whose vision is torn between the fogs of niflheim and the realm of midgard is almost inclined to believe legend. though there were times during his travels that kjalarr considered carving the eye out himself. to end the curse of it.

he pauses after a few more feet, bowing his head towards the creek where the twin forks join. his thirst is sudden and it is deep and kjalarr takes time to lap at the cool, refreshing water.

The thin-limbed devil had ventured round the base of the large rock structure from the shade of the forest where he had entered the wilds again. The sharpness of his hawkish gaze seemed to dart from brush to leaf, lingering only on the foliage that whistled and moved at the touch of the wind. Gluskap moved swiftly enough on the length of his ochre legs. His figure cut a delightful image; stubbed tail and russet hues that stood as a stark contrast to the rest of the world.
 
It was not until he had sighted another figure – large and formidable in his stride – bent to drink at the river, that Glu took a keen interest in the other male. He watched for a moment from the seclusion of the nearby brush. It housed him well, leaving little room to see the coywolf if it weren’t for the glimmer of his sharp yellow gaze. Fearlessly, the renegade emerged from his hiding place and seemed to dance toward the other wolf.
 
“You’re a wild thing, aren’t you?”
 
The smile that lingered on the edges of his lips was almost excited. The ruff where his tail had been seemed to quiver with that emotion, lasting only a moment before he straightened his lips and drew his narrow skull upward. It was there that he noticed the markings of the other brute; and a brute he was. The coywolf had never had much interest in the muscular dolts that meandered through the wilds with a predisposition for throwing their weight around. It was difficult for him to resist a challenge of that sort, though.

thank you for joining! ♥

kjalarr's head rises from the creek, salmon pink tongue drawing across his jowls to collect the stray droplets of water that dribble from his lips and chin, turning his eyes — one caribbean blue and the other frosted milky white — to the stranger that has emerged from the underbrush. vague and writhing shadows in the thick fog of his left eye offers him no aid but kjalarr, stubborn, still tries to use it. to act like he is not all-but blind in it. he's had time to learn how hunt, how to fight without it. the warborn draws in a deep breath, draws in the scent of the stranger whose features tell kjalarr that he is coywolf. for a moment, it draws a regretful stab beneath his breast as he inadvertently thinks of caiaphas and their reunion and how it had all gone wrong.

the coywolf is nimble, almost elegant with his movements. kjalarr's ears twitch at the other male's question. a wild thing. yes. yes, kjalarr thinks, that is a good way to describe him. "perhaps." kjalarr answers nonchalantly, a tease of coyness to his tone. he agrees with it but it's not his place to pin that upon himself. arrogance, kjalarr has learned, only leads to downfall every time. kjalarr keeps his eyes upon the stranger and does not bother to hide the intrigue that he feels.

<3

The brute lifted his crown and ran his tongue along the pale hairs of his muzzle, collecting droplets as it went. It was only then that the devil saw the moon in his eye; the blindness was glaring at him with a sickly shimmer. Gluskap was unabashed as he took in the milky color of the sightless thing. He thought it a lovely looking specimen. Intrigued by the medical marvel of one so young, the coywolf appraised him without care. He drank in the features of the man as though he had thirsted for it for all his life. The jagged marks along the bridge of his muzzle, the searching blind orb, and the rigidity of the dusted limbs.
 
“Oh, don’t be coy,” he snickered with a curling smirk on his dark, leathery lips. “Tell me, wildling… what has become of your eye?” The devil took a step forward and drew his skull upward with no shame. His pointed features were lifted to examine the blind orb. Something in the back of his mind told him to collect it from the brute; surely, he would not miss it. As the thought took hold of him, Glu’s body became alive with the desire for it.
 
Little did he know that the brute had regretful thoughts regarding his sister. Little did he know that they shared the hooded girl – the one common piece between them – and that there had been a bond of sorts that the male had felt toward Caiaphas. It would have interested him greatly, but it was not likely to come to light.

there are a lot of scars on kjalarr's body but he remembers them all ...and does not doubt that before his life is over others will be collected. they are trophies, sagas carved into his flesh. achievements and punishments. "a challenge. a fight to the death," that was the way of his father's culture. of his culture. "he had something i wanted, so i took it." and for a while he had led odinn's cove as his father and his father's father before him. but odinn's cove was not his birthright and kjalarr was not satisfied. the coywolf is unabashed and though his interest in the mostly blind eye might have perturbed anyone else kjalarr is willing to tell the tale, regardless of how vague he spins it. he might have thought it a curse but it is his curse, and like all the others ( potema's brand not withstanding ) it is also a trophy of a battle whose outcome could have been very different without it.

Glu did not understand, but smiled nonetheless. His eyes glittered as he traced the markings on the male's fur, mischievous and intent in a way that many lacked. The coywolf seemed perplexed at the very situation that had been presented by the stalwart stranger. He canted his head just so to the left and furrowed his brows slightly. The citrine color of his gaze did not leave the features of the other male as he took another daring step closer.

“But what did he have that you wanted? And how did that result in this?”

The brazen devil gestured toward the blind optic with a smirk. His eyes finally pulled away from the sight of him and focused on a neutral location, somewhere near the brute's chest. Then, Gluskap waited eagerly to hear what the meaty creature would say, if anything, in regard to the sightless thing that only occupied space in his skull. As though it had struck him instantly instead of having simmered for a long time, the devil gaped his mouth slightly and perked up.

“Would you like me to remove it?”

kjalarr is used to creating feelings of unease in others but the coywolf before him does not show any signs of being perturbed. on the contrary, it seems to kjalarr like the more he talks, the more he fuels the coywolf's interest. in turn, the warborn isn't sure how he feels about that. "i already told you. a fight to the death. i lost most of my eyesight in my eye but he lost his life." so, all in all, kjalarr came out of the deal with the better end of it. "i wanted to lead his pack." kjalarr admits with a lofty shrug of his broad shoulders. as if usurping the leadership of a pack is a casual, everyday occurrence. in ragnar's world ...it is. leaders have to fight for their position unless they are universally feared. creating that type of influence and maintaining it was not easy. territories and packs were fought over monthly. it was how they culled out the weak leaders and the leaderless packs either dealt with the leadership upheaval, were absorbed or entirely disbanded. it was a cutthroat life and one that kjalarr took to quickly and greedily.

there an errant flick of kjalarr's ear, a rise of his scarred muzzle in indignation when the coywolf asks kjalarr if he wanted him to remove it. it is an almost hypocritical gesture as he'd considered carving it out himself from time to time. and now, ironically, he refuses the assistance. "no." kjalarr tells the coywolf firmly. though he can still kind of see out of it, it is essentially useless to him. yet, he has learned how to adapt and beyond that: it's his curse as much as it is a trophy; and he is slowly becoming a hoarder of physical trophies. war and strife scrawl upon his body as if it is a holy temple carved with runes and he is loathe to upset the balance by allowing someone to take one of them.

The devil was secure in himself. Though the brute before him could not be matched in size or strength, Gluskap felt he had a wicked advantage in his wits. The coywolf did not shy away for this reason. He had never turned his back on the wolves of force and might. Instead, he opted to dance in circles around them until they found they grew tired of his ways and left him. This was, of course, not the best case scenario for the fiend. Were things to go his way, Glu would have gathered a new eye and taken it home with him. Instead, he was faced with a rather boring response about rank and leadership, and then denied access to the milky orb.

“Pity,” he mused softly, casting his expression toward the earth with a small frown. Truly, he did not think it to be a pity at all. The coywolf was certain that if he wanted the eye, he could retrieve the eye through some other means. No, he was not a creature of strength and force, but he had found a home in the darkest parts of the earth and knew the rats to be his friends. “Well, I suppose we haven't much more to discuss,” the coywolf then chirped with a quick snicker.

as tempted as kjalarr might be to rid himself of the accursed thing from time to time when given the opportunity he balks from it. which causes kjalarr to grow uncomfortable as he's forced to realize that he relishes it more than he's willing to let on. in the darkest of days where it feels like the gods have abandoned him it serves at a ( albeit cruel ) reminder that they have not. they give with one hand and take with the other. that is simply their way and their silence should not be mistaken for absence. gods do not talk. they scream in a tongue so archaic that it is lost to the sounds of the world around them and often goes unheard. it is not their fault that kjalarr is deaf to them more than he should be.

the coywolf remarks that it's a pity and kjalarr does not react aside from a slow blink and a bird-like cant to his head. what an interesting little creature, he thinks. a collector of oddities, perhaps. "so it would seem." kjalarr responds, lifting his muzzle ever so slightly in dismissal. kjalarr is determined would not be the first one to walk away, however. there is no where near enough trust for that and so long as the coywolf remains in his general vicinity kjalarr wants to keep a firm eye upon him out of habitual distrust and the knowledge that the other male wanted to covet his eye.