ett öppet sår

Alive. He burns with it too, the very feeling of his heart throbbing in his chest. The autumn breeze in his coat. The sun on his back. A good day for a hunt, yes. Alive and feeling absolutely brilliant. Gods, they'd been gifted with another good day. Everything was beautiful, and Viðarr was going to make the absolute best of it. He offered a nod to her words, already making his way in the direction of the copse of trees. Still, the last bit... he paused. The shadow cast a gaze over his shoulder, thoughtful. "You also." It caught him off guard, in truth.

He doesn't dwell. Viðarr moves quickly, quietly, with a dog at each flank. They're mindful of the wind's direction as they move, settling carefully in the shadows cast by the trees. It's when he's in position that he makes full eye contact with Tove and nods. As she moves, there's a flash of hooves and the panicked sounds coming from the oxen. Chaos erupts from them all, and Viðarr can feel it feeding his very nature. Off and running the creature comes his way, comes their way. Once Tove has the creature parallel to their spot, all three spring forth, moving as a singular unit. Viðarr with his gnashing teeth, and the dogs with their practice steps. Though hulking in figure, these are movements that have been practiced time and time again. Hunting was an art and a science, after all. Contact with the beast was fluid, but it would be harder to truly take it down than this.

Viðarr's heart pounded in his chest. Yes, this is what it truly meant to be alive.

"Viðarr"