FORGED BY THE WRATH OF GODS

The gods had smiled on him.  Víðarr could feel their approval in the warmth of hard fought victory, wrapped around his shoulders and wrapped around his heart.  There is something in him that could not be held back, could not be tamed, could not be controlled.  All he'd done, he'd done for them.  For them, and for his family.  A man could live for both, couldn't he?  He could live and breathe for them, live and die for them. It was all the same. For Víðarr, it was all the same. He will live and die by them all the same.

Walking away with a victory clutched between his teeth, bruised and bloody-- there is no better feeling. There is little he loves more. The shadowed viking king... yes. That feels good on his tongue. The title was still a work in progress, sure. The words assigned him by the common man meant little, if anything at all. No, meaning comes from what Víðarr would assign to it. Meaning... isn't that what they're trying to do? That was a thought perhaps too deep for the moment. He was still riding high on the victory, riding high on it all.

Riding high as he crests the Maw. The very top, the highest point. High enough to hear the rush of wind in his ears. High enough to hear the call of the void, though he pushed back against it. Víðarr had promised the woman of his dreams, the woman he planned to make his wife, a mountain. What a glorious mountain it was. It's from the very top that he tips his head back and lets loose a call, deep and haunting. An edge of danger, yes. Víðarr beckoned for all who dare join them. All who would walk beside them through the carnage and call it theirs.

Ooc: open for whoever would like to join Heiðinn, planning to respond on 8/13 (one week from now) <3