Spar-Row

In combat there's understanding. There's respect, too, in a way that the shadow rarely feels otherwise. Respect, reverence, and something that's far greater. No matter the outcome, he'd come away sore and proud of himself. Head high. Sore and feeling like he'd earned it. Scars are eared. Soreness is earned. Connection, though fleeting, is earned too. A golden thread that winds them all together. Viðarr holds onto that thread more tightly than he'd admit.

Each struggles to remain composed, upright, and relentless in their assault. The clashing of teeth and the growling of warriors thick in the air between them. It's a spectacle, the pair of massive creatures battling away in a strange land with singular purpose. His adversary pushed, and he pushed back. The great ache and burning of his muscles was starting to set in, but Viðarr pushed through it. There was too much adrenaline in his system to pay the soreness heed, and he wouldn't. Not yet. His jaws snapped once more, attempting to get a grip on the woman in any way he could. If he could get a grip, maybe he'd be able to haul her off. Though he was tired, Viðarr wasn't finished. This was too much fun.

"Viðarr"