none of them will yield

Víðarr · 01-24-2022, 05:09 AM

Everyone was still well asleep when Víðarr slipped away from camp. That was fine– let them rest. He’d never complain about that much. They’d been on the road, on the run, for far too long. Sleep, rest, they would need to recover. All of them would need to recover. He sighed to himself, climbing to his feet. Víðarr peered out over the sleeping forms of his family, and couldn’t help but feel the swell of pride in his chest. They were in one piece. They were whole. Soon he would bring them the kingdom they deserved.

And a kingdom it was. A kingdom touched by the gods, tucked away in the north. Though the winters here would be harsh, something told him it was far milder than they were accustomed to. The north, you see, had so much to offer. Hospitality of climate wasn’t one of them. Hospitality of people though? Well, that was near boundless. Víðarr smiled softly to himself as he stepped out into the inky darkness of the evening. The darkest hours were just before dawn, and he seemed to sink into them without much concern.

He pulled the darkness around his shoulders and stepped out. The gods really hadn’t held back on the finery this place had to offer, that was for certain. A soft breath in his chest, and a keenness in his gaze. Yes, this would do him well. That same gaze took no time at all to adjust to the darkness that spread around him. Confident steps over uneven ground, a jog that carried him easily– as easily as it could, considering his size. A behemoth of a man, Víðarr had a different kind of grace than his siblings. He had traded grace for power, and it left him different, though no less formidable.

From the east, he could smell the sheep. They were the very same that he’d hunted with the priestess only days before. Bringing one home had been excellent… maybe now that they were asleep, he could bring down another. Perhaps. Perchance. If he was lucky, Víðarr decided. He made his way in that direction at least, moving towards the grassy space that came before the mountains themselves. No, he knew better than to get too close. He knew better than to put himself in danger, especially when no one else was awake or around to bail him out. Safety. Safety was important.

Safety would keep him alive until it came time to… until it came time to do what? Until it came time to put a crown on his head and put himself directly in the line of fire. Being a king would paint a target on his back, but the shadow was ready. Gods, he was so ready. Víðarr knew that it was time, and he could feel it. As surely as the throb of his heart in his chest, the shadow knew it. Moving with purpose, confidence, he approached the space where they’d encountered the sheep days before. They were here.

Twenty yards off, Víðarr could see the sheep as they slept. His icy gaze fixed on one of the individuals, though he didn’t have an eye for it like Iðunn. She’d been swift and decisive with her choice, but this was different. He took his time to fix one with his cold stare. Good. One was far enough from the herd, an aging ram that Víðarr should be able to take on with relative ease. A split second decision before taking off.

Going from a dead stop to a run, Víðarr took off after the sheep. His head was low, pushing forward with claws dug hard into the ground. Enough purchase to propel himself forward, sheer aggression and pure force. He’s brilliant. Gods, he’s so brilliant, shining brightly in the indigo morning. Víðarr feels incredible on every single level. It’s madness and it’s magic, and the shadow can be both. Raw power as he forces forward over the ground.

Sharply, the wind changed direction. It carried Víðarr’s scent to the herd itself, and at once, there was chaos. There was commotion. There was a ruckus, a noise, and it kicked up all around. Confusion. The shadow could hear the sound of hooves against the ground, and the frightened cries of the sheep. There was chaos, too many sounds, noise, all of it rising around him.

And then nothing. Silence. The sheep had departed, running off into the night. The shadow’s heart pounded in his chest for a beat, then two, then three. Loudly, he swore. It wasn’t that they were in need of food, it wasn’t that they were in any danger. No, none of the above, genuinely. It was simply that Víðarr did not care for losing. He didn’t like losing when he should be victorious, but it seemed that Loki had bested him today. At least it was easier to blame the trickster god than it was anyone else.

With the first light of dawn starting to grace the horizon, Víðarr turned on his heels and began the walk back to camp. He’d go home, wait for someone else to wake, and then go about the hunts that way. Good enough.

VÍÐARR
Ragnarök awaits.

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