Dance with the Devil

Viðarr's weight is heavy against the door, lazy. Lounging. Why shouldn't he, when the child locked in the closet really couldn't be going anywhere. Really, he could sit out here for as long as he liked, listening to the creature suffer. He had been medically attended to. He would be fed... eventually. Before the end of the evening. While the viking king could be an unreasonable man, he wasn't outright cruel. Not yet, at least. Unusual punishments, not cruel ones. Well, other than locking this one in a cupboard. That may be cruel, but it was for his own protection (probably.)

After much thumping and the like, the creature finally settled. Viðarr noted the distinct lack of noise after those spare moments, and then... something. A murmur, something he couldn't make out. Maybe the thing was praying. That's what Viðarr would have done, after all. Maybe the boy was mad. That seemed like a reasonable explanation for child this young to be out on his own. "Speak up, pojke." The words are rumbled, snarled from a place deep in his chest. A little psychological torment never hurt anyone, right?

"Viðarr"