Not Your Swan Song

He is well accustomed to the sights and the stories of the swans. Víðarr thinks of the legends, of the reasoning the birds themselves are white. He thinks of the swan maidens. He thinks of all of the things, all of the reasons why they are the way they are. Why do none of the stories stop to tell that swans are fucking mean. While the band had settled in the Willows early in the spring, the shadow had quite a few run ins with the big ol' birds.

Maybe that's why he's less than amused to see them as he carefully makes his way through the Willows in search of a snack. As he peers at the creature, it's apparent he's not alone here. Víðarr draws closer to the woman. Though nearly as tall as Víðarr himself, she looked like she could use a good meal. Hell, she looked like she could use many good meals. Still sizing up their quarry as he joins her, the shadow considers the scene for a moment. "Swans are fucking mean," his remark is colored heavily by his accent, and maybe a bit of humor. "We could eat that one." Well, that was one way to make sure they were on the same page.

"Víðarr"