Dance with the Devil

As the child crumples to the ground, Viðarr takes a long step back. He'd given the boy what he wanted. He'd given the boy a fight, and shown him why that was a bad choice. He submits. The viking king lets up. There is no more pressure, aside from that exerted by his icy gaze on the child. Assessing. Appraising. There is anger in the child, and something else. Something bigger. Something deeper. Viðarr recognizes it, though he can't name it.

"Actions have consequences, boy." The words are colored with his heavy, unwavering accent. Every word spoken carries weight, and the shadow doesn't mince words. "I am Viðarr Trygg. Give me your name." He doesn't soften, no. But the viking king keeps his distance, allows the boy to get his bearings. He would sit back here and he would simply watch for now. Unwavering, yes, but curious about this child the gods seem to have placed in his path. How strange.

"Viðarr"