hold the heathen hammer high

The complexities in the relationships between fathers and sons are something Viðarr knows all too well. He refused to allow thoughts of his father often, but he held a bitterness toward his sire that couldn't be healed. There were no telling what mistakes the shadow would make with his own sons, and in all likelihood, they'd be much the same. Only time would tell.

Hattori. He nods once back to the man, mirroring his movement. Though his manners were rough, he wasn't uncivilized. "Neither do you." It was a fair observation, and by all means not untrue. "When I first arrived with my family we settled here and in the woods just beyond." The shadow speaks now, more words than he's strung end to end in a while. As he speaks, his accent seems to grow more pronounced, as Viðarr finds keeping up the practice of chasing it away to be a chore. A pack lived in the woods now, though he didn't know quite how far they ranged. Still, this place calls him back. Still, here he is. His tone is carefully composed neutrality, emotion concealed carefully. Playing his cards close to his chest.

"Viðarr"