Spar-Row

Relentless. Reckless. Brilliant. The shadow is taken over by something that's far greater than himself in moments like these. The blood in his veins isn't just his own, no. Something bigger. Something better. Something that ties him to the ancestors that came before him and those that would come long after he's gone. All of them are held together by an invisible thread, and all of them are here on the battlefield with him now. Viðarr could not describe it, but there's reverence in combat. He's reverent.

They're locked in a dance as old as life itself. Alive. The throb of his heart in his chest, the ache of his muscles, the spinning in his head and the stinging pain of ripped flesh-- yes. This is where he feels most alive. This is what suits him in every last godforsaken way. It feels phenomenal. Viðarr is everything he wants to be in moments like this. The berserker pushes through the stinging as it turns to searing. A savage growl wrenched free from his chest. He couldn't help it. His challenger had the tender spot where his jaw turned to neck, somewhere in between. He couldn't say exactly where, only that it hurt as he twisted and wrenched in an attempt to free himself.

Viðarr did not relent. He pushed, crashed into the woman as best he could with his limited space to gather momentum. He was grateful for the power in his muscles, feeling his entire system working in harmony. Beautiful in a way that he rarely is. Viðarr was making a wild attempt to shove her off balance, hoping to stagger the creature as they moved in perfect time together. Shoving, pressing forward, teeth gnashing and jaws snapping. The bite was only meant to serve as a diversion, and his real desire was to bring her crashing to the ground.

"Viðarr"