death machine(s)

Heavy lifting was the name of the game when it came to settling new lands, breaking new ground. Heavy lifting and hard work. Sweat. Lots of sweat. Even some blood. Víðarr was content with the spilling of blood, with the rending of flesh. More than that... he might have even been happy with it. Gods, he is happy. In his glory. As Lorikeet asks her question, he can't help but allow the shadow of a smile to color his expression. "We will see." Her assistance had been appreciated, and it seems they are well practiced now, dispatching predators.

Her words to the bear were sensual, and they seemed to do the trick. The bear faltered, beginning to topple. Víðarr struck, sinking his teeth into the bear's now exposed throat. Snarling, sinking in as deep as he could and ripping back. There was enough blood, enough gore to coat him thoroughly. The bear still had some fight left, swatting at the viking king with its massive paws. He could feel one make contact with the side of his head, but it was a weaker blow than the first. He stumbled back, ears ringing, out of the creature's line of fire. Panting. Gods, it felt good to be alive. "Well done." The words were appreciative, gaze turning to Lorikeet, making sure she's still in one piece.
"Speech"