Sometimes we break, sometimes we build

Satisfied with the way the post sits in the hole, Viðarr takes a step back. A deep sigh, relaxing his posture for a moment. It felt good to make progress, it felt good to get shit done. The viking king knew that the rewards would be great, in time. For now it would be a lot of hard work, a lot of effort. He stretches deeply, first backwards over his haunches, then forwards over his shoulders. The hard, physical work felt damn good. Really, Viðarr thrives on it.

His brows lift at the boy's question. "Pups are not called on to speak during the Thing. They are there to observe and learn the order of things." Viðarr's tone is stone serious, though he trails off at the end. From the corner of his eye, he sees... movement. More movement then there should be. His head snaps around, a deep, perturbed grumble in his throat.

"Jävla fitta," Viðarr swears. "Come now." He gives the order, but takes off after the wayward sheep without looking over his shoulder to see if the boy is following. It seemed to be one rogue individual, a crafty beast that's slipped through the fence. Viðarr goes wide, taking off after the thing.

"Viðarr"