A warrior doesn’t choose her battles

The shadow watches, listens carefully as Voodoo pleads her case. His expression is unchanging, rough-hewn features remaining truly neutral as the woman speaks. Though his knee jerk reaction is to turn her down outright, to inform her we have healers, there is the question of children as well. Yearlings, judging by Tomie's size, as she lurked behind her mother. Víðarr watches them both carefully, considering. It was either bravery or stupidity that brought her to his doorstep, and she did have children to think about. He couldn't turn down a traveler, and the shadow supposed that's all she was now.

Víðarr studied her for a long moment before finally speaking. "The gods would not have chosen me if I was not the man for the job." His tone is careful, and the shadow chooses each word with intent. "Is this the only child you bring, or will it be the others, too?" He had to consider what the mountain could provide, how many it could support. There was always the idea they reach farther, sweep down its craggy edge and on into oblivion (or whatever else was down there.) Finding some merit in this train of thought, he'd hold onto it for later.

And then there was the question of trust. Víðarr could not trust her, not yet. Voodoo says she's not a leader, was he inclined to believe her? Was she planning, scheming something? After another long, thick pause, he speaks once more. "If you want to stay, then you will start at the very bottom. You will each prove I can trust you. Apply yourself like you say you want, and time will tell." His tone picked up a hard edge, expression gravely serious. It was a risk, and Víðarr knew that. But it was a risk he could take, with plenty of dangerous and able bodied fighters within his ranks. The work would be hard, the climb would be tough. You have to be tough to survive with the worst of them. Carefully, he watches. He waits, looking for any shred of reaction to his terms.

"Speech"