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The sickening snap of bone doesn't escape Viðarr, no. It fills the air, and he's grateful for it. To his side, he knows that Tove has rendered the predator immobile. Excellent. All of it was excellent. He feels, he breathes, he aches for the gore of it all. Gore. Yes, the gore. His face splattered with blood, Viðarr bears down on the creature's throat. Snarling, ripping, sinking deeper and deeper within it. Shredding. He holds to it and shakes, wrenches, rips as much as he can free. Alight with the absolutely wild nature of it all, Viðarr is so immensely and incredibly pleased. Alive.

The metallic taste of blood fills his mouth, and with one last, great yank he knows that he's caused enough damage. The bear lets go a sound that starts mighty, and fades to something far less than that. It was true, the creature went out with a bang. It wasn't a whimper, no. Even as the predator succumbs to its fate, there's a feeble attempt to shake Viðarr free. Valiant, but no match for them. No match for all of them. There were no free meals here. There wouldn't be any free meals here. The shadow's face is absolutely covered in blood as he finally peels away, panting. Adrenaline courses hotly in his system, and it's enough to push away the pain in his shoulder. It's enough, for now. The priestess would have his head when she looked at it later, but that was her right.

No, as he stumbles back from the hulking, crumpled form of the bear, his first concern is those around him. "You," he panted, catching his bearings. "You are okay?" He looked to Tove first, and then the pair of dogs as they circled back to the front of the bear's body. Would the shadow be able to forgive himself if they had been harmed? Likely not. Both dogs looked both unharmed and unimpressed-- a bear was just another day at the office for them. But Tove... was Tove okay?

"Viðarr"