sparks fly high when steel meets steel

The importance of names... the importance of surnames had never been lost on Víðarr. There was a reason that they'd come together and chosen something new. Trygg. Trustworthy, they'd chosen. Faithful, they'd chosen. Devoted, they implied. It was the way in which they regarded each other. A family unit that was most unusual, most incredibly strange. Siblings, cousins, banded together by something that most would recognize as shared trauma. They'd gotten out. They'd survive. Bound together by their morals (loose as those morals were), and something even greater. Yes, something that was far greater than even blood. It's not blood that makes a family, after all. They understood that better than most.

Víðarr watches the man as he carefully climbs the tree, this Úlfr Finnvi. The familiarity of the name, of the sounds, is enough to relax him considerably. "As I am to meet you," the words were quiet, but sincere. "There is comfort in knowing others like us, so far from home." Viðarr clarifies, settling to listen to the man before him speak. Úlfr speaks of the passing of his mother, and the shadow offers a bit of comfort in his tone, in his gaze. For the first time in what feels like too long, his own mother crosses his mind, and then Sanngriðr's.

"Did she ever tell you of Fólkvangr?"" Viðarr thinks of each field, each hall, in turn. Sure, Valhalla was reserved for warriors, but everyone knew Valhalla. Fólkvangr had been the comfort for his elder sister, and it's the comfort that he can offer in a moment like this. If Úlfr wanted to learn of their traditions, then the shadow was happy to pass them on. When it came to his gods, he was happy to teach.

"Viðarr"