Dance with the Devil

Strai eats like he's been starved, and Viðarr can't fault him for it. Judging by the looks of him, starvation wasn't a stranger. The creature is ravenous, and Viðarr could only hope his appetite extended beyond food. The individuals that thrived here were those hungry for life, hungry for glory. They'd chosen life on the unforgiving mountain, life in the chilling north. It was a dangerous, violent life, and it was one that the viking king wouldn't trade for anything.

The child has no parents remaining. He'd be a burden to any raiding party, whoever remained wouldn't miss him. The scrawny whelp was heathen property now, and Viðarr was satisfied that no one would come after him. "You will stay here, as one of my thralls. You will learn and you will work, until you earn your freedom." The shadow speaks, gaze steady on Strai for a moment longer before turning to rummage in another cabinet. From this one he pulls a hand-me-down coat, offering it to the boy. Viðarr wouldn't allow him to go hungry or freeze, at least. "Understood?"

"Viðarr"