Dance with the Devil

The whelp is tough. He's a tough little thing, one that will someday grow into a man. Viðarr sees him, scrawny as he is. He sees the creature push himself, despite being undernourished, exhausted. There is a spark in the child, one that he could only hope to fan into a flame. Though the boy thinks he's burning now, it would only get worse. Viðarr has plans for the child. Big plans. There was still much work to be done on the mountain.

But first, the fight. Viðarr feels the child on his back, hanging on for dear life. Though the stinging of teeth and claws in his system is a reminder of the pound of flesh on the line, the viking king was happy to play with his food. As the pale whelp put his momentum into Viðarr's head, he rounded his shoulders and tucked his chin. It's his hope that the boy would go tumbling right in his desired direction, and straight into the ground. Was he quite done with his tantrum?

"Viðarr"