walking on barbed wire

His head is here. Viðarr's head is in it, and so is his heart. Still, there's something in his chest. His desire to head south was stronger than usual, stronger than it ever had before. Until now, he'd been nearly allergic to the place. Now? Curiosity... and something else. Something else. Viðarr's head is, admittedly, somewhere else at the moment. Somewhere he wishes he was. Somewhere that he may have been, if this was another life and he was another man.

But he is nothing of the sort. Viðarr Trygg, bold and brassy, making his way through the east on his way southbound. The heat was sticky on his tongue, around his shoulders. Well and truly, the viking loathes the summer. It put him in a foul mood, and this was no different. He's wilting under the weight of the summer, which is to be expected really.

The words that come to the shadow aren't meant for him. He knows that much, and yet? Though Viðarr doesn't emerge from the shadows, he speaks. Accent playing heavily in his words, and something of a smile too. "This place is full of ghosts." Words measured, though he keeps his distance. Viðarr has his own mission today, and his path won't deviate.
"Viðarr"