Dance with the Devil

Viðarr squints at the boy, scrawny as he is. Most scrawny boys would grow into men, though they often took more time to do it. This one... would probably be fine. Probably be fine if he didn't get himself killed first. A flicker of recognition as the boy gives his surname too... Ivarsson. Patronymic, like those in the motherland, though Viðarr would be naive to think that his people were the only ones to name like that. Still, it's enough to tug at the red string of fate that seemed to wind them all together. Though the reasons were unclear, the gods had put young Astraios here.

Strai, then. "And where is your mother now?" If she was looking for him, that would be another discussion. Another consideration. Would someone come looking for the child, only to leave Viðarr with another issue on his hands. He gets to his feet, moving to rummage in another cabinet for a moment. Moments later he comes up with a chunk of dried reindeer, breaking it in half before offering the larger piece to Strai. The viking king sits, taking a bite of his snack, watching.

"Viðarr"