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He considers his early memories of his father, a creature too proud to pass off the leadership of his hunt. Too proud, too arrogant, maybe either of the two. Viðarr had already vowed, time and time again, that he'd never be his father. If being an asshole was genetic then so be it, but he'd never be that much of an asshole. Maybe he'd be worried about that later. He offers a smile to Tove as she stands beside her, nodding once. Yes, she'd lead.

They take off, making their way in the direction of the musk ox. His icy gaze was brilliant, glimmering. Sun warm on his shoulders, a spring in his step... yes, autumn (early as it was, yet) was far more agreeable than summer had been. Even this far north, the heat that had taken on the midsummer had been stifling. The hot days would be less and less now, and he could enjoy himself in the afternoons again. They crouched low in the tall grasses downwind from the oxen, and Viðarr can see the youngling she points out. One of the babes that had been calved in the middle of the summer, not yet strong enough to pose much of a threat to the pair.

"We wait in the trees, here," he indicates a small copse of sparse trees not far off, down wind, enough cover for the larger male and his dogs. "Bring him toward us?" It's a proposal, his eyebrows raised slightly. Viðarr would offer her the chance to speak up if she'd like it, after all. She'd tracked the oxen, and if she wanted to take some of the leadership for the hunt, he'd welcome it. Still, he knows well that Tove is faster than he, and the shadow is better off in the ambush spot than doing the actual herding.

"Viðarr"