It seemed more and more often that he was approached by the strange, stout little creature. Binti looked rather like a bedraggled little old man, and the viking king could only imagine he'd be getting grey hairs from all of the misadventure and shenanigans. Viðarr had been getting things for the sheep in order, preparing the pens, getting everything settled and sorted out. With a sigh, he turns from his work and plods after the binturong.
He approaches from behind the thrall boy, gaze falling on him as he thrusts the bag back upon Delphi. "We take from others, boy. Not our own." He looms, casting a long shadow. There is pure menace in his tone, a darkness that has begun to rear its ugly head once more. Though Astraios wasn't entirely wrong-- the vikings were big on taking. That much was going to be clear to the other packs, the other inhabitants of this world, they would take. But they do not take from their own. Whether the thrall boy likes it or not, this is his own now.
"Explain to me what happened." Viðarr moves to her side, concern in his gaze. Muddy, scraped, but not seriously injured... good. The viking king doesn't know who started it, but he's going to end it.
"Viðarr"
Víðarr has two Karelian bear dogs and a white morph tawny owl. Assume they're within calling distance unless otherwise stated.
Víðarr speaks with a dense Swedish accent.
Cooperative
![[Image: bfcOTDt.png]](https://i.imgur.com/bfcOTDt.png)
