Cyanide sighed to herself, laying down heavily in what seemed to be the only dry spot in this godforsaken snowy wasteland. Sure, the rest of the year this was a fine place to crash out, but for now? For now it was too fucking cold. She was too cranky, too chilly for all of it. She can’t help it, not being built for the cold and all. Almost, almost, she missed the cushy life that they’d had in Ashen. Not that Cy had ever fit in there, the… whatever she was of a prince. Not that she’d even had that good a time. They couldn’t trade freedom, not for anything. Stargazers, they’d be called. What a concept that was. It was a nice enough afternoon, summer sunlight doing its best to warm her. Trying its best. It reflected off of the river, glimmering, all of the shit that Cy would have appreciated if she was someone else. Instead, she grumbled and pressed back against the steadiness of the tree behind her. Fine. cyanide he said to be cool but i'm already coolest

Víðarr had seen her, but he didn’t know her. If they were going to travel together, he needed to know them all, at least to an extent. Trust and safety in numbers were one of the few things that could keep anyone safe on the road. On their journeys, in their travels. Finally taking the time to seek out the sulky, reclusive creature would make the most sense.

He found her curled up by the river. “You cannot fish just by staring at the river,” the words came with a bit of a chuckle to himself, a bit of a smile. Víðarr, at least, thinks himself funny. Gently, he drops an elk’s pelt over the thin girl where she lay curled up before settling beside her. This would be a fine place for him to rest, as well as to make some repairs to his gauntlets. Carefully, he unrolled the soft skin that held his bundled gauntlets, tools, and the small sack of replacement studs and set to work tinkering with the studs that were worn and needed sharpening.

"Viðarr"

Cyanide’s ears flatten to her skull, glowering at the shadow where he approaches. It was too friendly a greeting, too kind a gesture. She does not trust him, a veritable stranger despite his proximity to her… whatever Cel was. Still, she burrows under the pelt, dragging it up and around her shoulders. The gesture is out of line in her eyes, but maybe she appreciates it. Maybe. “Who even are you, really?” Her pink eyes narrowed as they settled on the viking, appraising. Carefully, thoughtfully appraising him. Who was he, and why had he shown up in the way he had? Why was he still here, even after the fall of the pack? cyanide he said to be cool but i'm already coolest

She looked offended, and Víðarr supposed that was her right. Maybe that was just her face? He couldn’t be too sure. The shadow’s icy gaze rested on his work instead of the girl, humming softly to himself as he did. It took a great deal of prying and bending, but he was finally able to free the damaged stud.

“I am Víðarr Trygg,” it’s a simple answer to a simple question. In his mind it’s simple, at least. Who knew what was really going on in the girl’s head. It seemed that she was watching him work. He carefully began to sharpen the stud against the makeshift whetstone he’d stolen from his sister at some point, focusing on the work.

"Viðarr"

Was he dense? Maybe he was dense. Celeste wouldn’t keep him around if he was actually stupid. Cy had asked him a question that she would have liked more of an answer to, but here he was just giving his whole ass name. Even hearing him say it, she would have no easier time pronouncing it herself. She let go a sharp breath from her nose, setting her chin on her paws. The wraith half watched the man and half watched the river. “I mean, what are you to her?” If he was going to be dense, then she was going to be direct with at least one question. What were his intentions with the band, why had he come? Why had he stayed with them, on into the harder life that would come with their transition to a band? Was Cyanide feeling… protective? Maybe. Surely not? Maybe. cyanide he said to be cool but i'm already coolest

She seemed annoyed, but frankly, Víðarr knows he has that effect on people. He’d picked up some of the nuances of the common tongue here in the last two years, and that sort of sigh from a woman well– he had sisters. Still, he’s comfortable as he continues on with making his repairs, sharpening the four sides of the stud back into a hard point. Pleased with this one, he sets it to the side, ready to be re-fitted. Onto the next one, lifting the stud from its leather prison, this one coming out far easier than the last. Víðarr frowned to himself, taking a moment to re-examine the setting that it had come out of. The leather here was starting to stretch and warp from use. Well, nothing some hot water and resin wouldn’t fix. Probably.

Her question gives him pause. Víðarr thinks on it for a long moment. “When I met Celeste she was barely a yearling, and all on her own.” He remembered the day well, a girl and her cat that had spent a pleasant afternoon by his side. “She is a fierce spirit, and reminds me well of my sisters. Family is more than just blood, and I look out for family.” They were friends, yes. Víðarr had taken a sort of responsibility for the girl as time had gone on. Nothing would happen to her, if he had anything to say about it.

"Viðarr"