brave & free

There's a renewed vigor to him. Something that's pure, something that's brilliant. It lives in his chest and colors every action he takes. Sheer, stunning vitality has washed over the viking king since taking up the title. Responsibility, the weight of alphahood, it's really quite becoming of him. Though Viðarr doesn't have as much a free pass to be reckless these days, it's worth it. His family was together, they had their mountain, and things were going beautifully. Everything is wonderful.

Even in the midst of wonderful things, he knows that he needs to stay sharp. Stay vigilant. Stay prepared. Maybe that's why he crosses down the north side of the mountain. Maybe that's why he puts one foot in front of the other until he's on the Battlefield. Really, the truth is that Viðarr just likes to fucking fight. He tips his head back, stepping up to the ring. Tips his head back and lets go a call. Someone come for him. Someone come at him. The viking king will let down his hair and he will fight.

"Viðarr"