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The two wolves are the balance of nature. They'd give and take away... today, they were taking. They would take what they needed to survive, what they would need to feed their family through the winter. They'd take the ox from the earth, and in return, they'd be able to survive for a while longer. It's enough. They are enough. Survival... yes, their very survival meant that hunting and killing was a necessity. Viðarr doesn't worry about it, at least not much.

Tove brings the calf staggering, and the dogs help her to imbalance it further. Viðarr had learned from their first hunt here, on Boreas. He was careful with the direction that the beast would fall, ensuring it would be in a direction that wouldn't jeopardize any of his companions. With a flash of teeth in the sunlight, the shadow sinks his jaws into the throat of the creature. Though it cries out, it's muted. The taste of blood in his mouth, the ox goes down. It's only when the creature is done flailing that Viðarr takes a step back, that he releases his grasp. Somewhere in the fray he'd taken a kick to the shoulder... when had that happened? It's only now, as the adrenaline fades, that he can feel the dull ache. Still, it's the dull ache of a job well done. The shadow takes a moment to assess the others with his gaze, catching his breath. "Well done." He pants, shaking some of the blood from his maw. Yes, well done indeed.

"Viðarr"