The clock is ticking faster, as we live

It would be fair to say that Viðarr had been collecting information out west. The news from the sister whose name he wasn't interested in hearing, the news that there was a man who called himself the heir of Valhalla. The false god. Yes, it was an interest in gathering what information he could on this strange pack filled with those who mocked his gods, that pulled him westward.

By the time he arrives, it seems the thing stands abandoned. Abandoned, up for claim. A bit of deja-vu, colors his vision of the scene, gaze falling appraisingly on the boy who's made the call. Drawing in closer, the mottled man speaks too. "We can hope for a show," the words come with a deep, rumbling chuckle. It comes from somewhere deep in his chest, along with a razor sharp grin. Though he briefly sizes up the raid king, Viðarr recognizes the way about him. They've arrived for the spectator sport of this. In that, he spends a longer moment looking over the whelp from his distance. What sort of kingdom would he lead?

"Viðarr"