An old moon

The itch was incessant, and Víðarr felt it too. He liked to fight. More than that-- he loved to fight. One of the few things that made the shadow feel well and truly alive, after all. Alive. By all the gifts the gods had bestowed upon him, he's alive. If he's alive, he's going to fight. Anything and everything in the name of making his gods proud. He was one of the chosen, after all. Chosen of the gods. He'll fight until he can't any longer, as is his place in this world. The fates spoke of his coming long ago. The fates had brought him here. Yes, another day in his series of heres.

Though the shadow and his dogs bristled at the sight of the bear (they were bear dogs, after all), the wave was endearing. He couldn't help but return it, waving back curiously. "Until yield," a rakish grin parts the shadow's face. He's pleased. The man before him has clearly seen his fair share of fights. Víðarr would have a challenge on his hands, and that was more than enough for him.

Víðarr is in motion in the same heartbeat. He would close the gap too, moving forwards into the face of danger... or well, the face of his opponent. Genuinely, the shadow is wild. It's with Tyr's blessing that he meets Sirius, two behemoths clashing as they will. Víðarr catches the swipe to the side of his face, but it only serves to stoke the fire. Bold as he is, the shadow moves to knock the flat of his skull into the Warlord's, teeth glinting in the autumn sunlight. If he can find purchase, he'll take it gladly. If he can't, then it's a nice show-- a win-win scenario, in his eyes. Víðarr is a showman, in fights like these. A reverence that can only be described as religious, a priest in his own right as he fights. By the gods, Víðarr loves every minute of it.

"Víðarr"