Spar-Row

She is broad, strong, as much a mountain of a wolf as he was. There's something gratifying about that. Viðarr tossed his head, eyes glimmering in the light of the battlefield. Everything about him in these moments is brilliant. Beautiful, dangerous, brilliant. In a dance like this, so brilliant and beautiful, he feels the camaraderie that can only come from a fight. The vision that he'd had around the statue still rings clear and true in his mind. There was a great hall filled with brothers, filled with family, that waited for him on the other side. Every fight, every spar, it brought him closer to what would be his fate in the end. Every time the shadow steps into the ring it's a religious experience. This is no different.

A state of calmness, of stillness, enters Viðarr and takes hold of his entire system. It grips him in a way that he can't deny. His adversary circled left, and moved to slam into him. He begins to move in this moment, meeting her blow in much the same way. Though she manages to unseat his foreleg from its spot on the ground, Viðarr pushes in her direction instead of staggering back. He'd try and thrust his weight upon her shoulder, teeth and jaws flailing all the while. If he could catch her in the process, that would be all the better. Fur, flesh, any of it. Close quarters would suit him best, not expending the energy to steer and move too far away. Behemoths battling it out, and he'd do his best to stay in direct proximity as the spar went on.
"Viðarr"