Dance with the Devil

The boy had some nerve, Viðarr would give him that. Tenacious, despite being a scrawny little thing. The viking king remained heavily against the door, though he felt the wood rattle as it absorbed the force of the child's weight. He chuckled, the sound resonating from somewhere deep within his chest. Really, the child wanted to try? He really wanted to try to take him head on? Already in a foul mood at the hands of this gnat of a boy, Viðarr would be happy to fight.

"If you really want," the viking sighed. He stepped away from the door and took up a defensive position, pearly white teeth gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. Viðarr's hackles went up along his back, and he's truly hulking. Massive, imposing, and applying pressure with his icy gaze and stance. If the boy wanted to attack, let him. Maybe it would serve as a good lesson.

"Viðarr"