reaching for cloud cloaked skies

Viðarr was in a strange mood. He felt... strange. Ever since making their return from the carnival, things had gotten stranger and stranger. Not even bad strange. It seemed that nearly overnight he'd grown. A gift from the gods... a gift from the gods themselves. He had to believe it, though it wasn't always easy. They knew of his intent, and it seemed they were smiling upon him. For that, the shadow was grateful. Another dog had joined Fisk as well, and it seemed that they got along rather well. The pair had spent every night curled up together, each unwilling to let the other go. They were very much alike, and each refused to leave the other's side. Viðarr was happy to welcome the second dog into camp.

They'd need to train. They'd need to take that time and put in the effort. Viðarr carefully suited up, pulling his armor on and lacing it comfortably. Yes, he would train. Skill was just another well honed blade. He would train, so that he could protect his family. He would be their shield. He would fight for them. Viðarr held his head high, regal, ready.

Crossing onto the battlefield, there was an excitement in his chest. Both companions at his side, ready, waiting. All three were wound tightly, a spring ready to trip at any given moment. Tipping his head back, he allowed the call to ring out. Yes, it was time. Viðarr longed for the violence of the spar.
"Viðarr"