don't get cut on my edges

She looked offended, and Víðarr supposed that was her right. Maybe that was just her face? He couldn’t be too sure. The shadow’s icy gaze rested on his work instead of the girl, humming softly to himself as he did. It took a great deal of prying and bending, but he was finally able to free the damaged stud.

“I am Víðarr Trygg,” it’s a simple answer to a simple question. In his mind it’s simple, at least. Who knew what was really going on in the girl’s head. It seemed that she was watching him work. He carefully began to sharpen the stud against the makeshift whetstone he’d stolen from his sister at some point, focusing on the work.

"Viðarr"