sparks fly high when steel meets steel

His steps are confident, easy. Nothing can shake Viðarr, not in the way he thinks or the way that he moves. He's exactly the man he's meant to be. Though hulking, he moves through the trees easily. A ladder of sorts seems to spread out before him, and he won't turn that down. With careful steps he climbs, finding easy footholds and broad branches to step upon. They don't quiver beneath his weight, instead, they boost the man higher and higher with ease. Viðarr's muscles were still sore from the previous days' hunts, and he doesn't want to push it-- not now.

No, for now he's content to find a comfortable place to land and to rest. He's not that high up. Ten feet, maybe? A high garden wall, something that would be jarring to leap down from but not too dangerous. A space where the limbs of three separate trees grew as one, coming up from the ground. It was comfortable, with something broad and strong to rest his back upon. To himself, the shadow began to hum as he rested. A haunting, comforting lullaby, something that had come from his mother. Not loud, but also not holding back either. Viðarr was at peace as the sun began to set slowly in the west, bathing the sky before him in the most beautiful reds and golds.

"Viðarr"