Ozias thought it only proper for a man to spill blood. Since there were no longer wars to be fought and battles to be won, he’d have to settle for hunting. Though his finest days of fitness were behind him, he was still a capable hunter—though he was self-aware enough to know it was unwise for him to go alone. He brought his son Oskar, his youngest boy, with him. He was nineteen, strong as an ox and young enough to still hunger for his father’s approval.

They had left Gilead the day before, making camp just without the range of the prime hunting grounds. From when Kaalim left Gilead, he’d likely come upon the camp mid-morning, a several-hour journey from the city. The camp would be easy to discover, as they were not close enough to the hunting grounds for silence to be a necessity. They ate, preparing to make their way further into the hunting grounds, strategizing their best course.

Kaalim wasn't a man built on silently moving, which made hunting slightly more tedious but Kaalim always managed and the game he hunted could hunt too. Since his days of embracing the Beast inside Kaalims thirst for bigger game was deeper. Approaching the camp he let them know of his approach with a low whistle to let them know of his presence he smelled their cooking a few miles back, "Good morning," he called after that, "Something smells good warriors," Kaalim still approached cautiously the usual large steel staff had been long withdrawn since his early departure to aide as a walking staff (it doubled as his weapon of choice), "Pair it with a mug of meade and cheese? Might a man sit for and catch a break before my hunt?"

Ozias and his son did not startle when they heard the sounds of someone approaching. They looked up from their quick meal expectantly, as if this oncomer where one they’d been waiting for all along.

When Ozias saw just who it was, the man grinned. Whether it was sinister or sincere, it was difficult to say. The old man’s face was so lined with age, battlescars, and weather, his every expression had become distorted.

“Well, well,” Ozias stood, brushing his hands clean on his pants, “What a joy it is to discover the Cyrilsons still know of the hunt.” He grinned, the look going either way, before he moved to embrace Kaalim. Kaalim would know Ozias. After all, Ozias had been one of Cyril’s close allies and confidants. Though the fading warrior had been far from Kaalim and his brothers these past five years, that foundation still remained.