ett öppet sår

It was official. They'd come together as a band, and Viðarr was already feeling stronger. More settled. More comfortable. He gazed on carefully at his dogs as they played at the foot of the wall, a rousing game of bitey face. Typical, he smirked to himself. Fairly typical, and he wouldn't stop them. Viðarr feels no need. Summer had melted away as well, something he was more than grateful for. Already the days were shorter, cooler, more comfortable. Around his shoulders, the afternoon sun shone brightly.

Between his paws, the shadow pinned down a hide. Across it, he scraped a chunk of flint with a sharpened edge. Right, needed to brush away all of the remaining bits of flesh. On the other side, fur still remained, the last suggestion that this had been a deer at one time. If they were going to stay around the north in the coming winter, they'd need the hides to keep warm. Many of their members were smaller, and some were less suited to the cold altogether. Right. He'd prepare things so they were just so. Viðarr would take care of them all. That was his job now, but hell, it always had been.

Well and truly, it always had been his job. Now it was just more official. From his perch upon the wall, Viðarr was able to keep a dutiful watch. His home was wherever his family was, after all.

"Viðarr"