walking on barbed wire

Viðarr's people know long of ghosts and gods, giants, monsters-- all of them. He's heard the stories. He's told the stories, now, to his own children. The stories, they've always had a life and a mind of their own. Though his sisters were far better storytellers, Viðarr gets by. Each tale would morph and change with each telling, each would take on a new life in those that heard it. The legends of his people... he knows them well. They live in his chest, they live in his head. Maybe that's why he can regard himself in the same way. While Viðarr is spectral, he is probably not a ghost.

She doesn't know where she's going, she doesn't know where she is. The shadow cannot hold that against her either. He was the same way when he'd first turned up in Boreas, and if she was just arriving then this too, made sense. Viðarr nodded once, assessing the girl. "This is the eastern edge of the continent they call Boreas." It's a simple enough explanation. The exact name of this field, these Plains, was useless to him. Viðarr hadn't bothered to learn it. He figures this is likely as good a time as any to remember his manners, too. "I am Viðarr Trygg." Volunteering information hasn't been his strong suit really ever, but he would learn. In time, he would learn.

"Viðarr"