Spirits in the Mist

Viðarr finds himself up here more and more often. It's a comfortable place to think, and he's long adjusted to the thin air. Really, it's made him a better athlete on the ground. In the short time they'd been here, Viðarr finds himself stronger, sharper than ever. Rising to the occasion, well and truly. In his eyes, it was about making the gods proud. Making his family proud. Hell, he'd asked Tenshi to be his wife, he'd brought her a mountain. Now it was all in making this mountain a home.

A glimmer in his icy eyes, the viking king makes his way to what feels like the very edge of the universe. He can feel the gods close by, when he's up here. Viðarr loves it. He's drawn in by it, and he holds it dear. As the shadow steps out into the dreary open. Broad muzzle tipped to the raw breeze, breathing in sharply. Every day was a gift from the gods, but days like these? Viðarr loved them. Bracing and grey, they make him feel alive.

He's not alone up here. There's someone else... Pandora? The older priestess, though Viðarr didn't know her well. He offered a huff of sorts, a greeting, though he didn't quite feel the need for words. Not yet. It's not until he largely closed the gap, approaching with an understated, quiet confidence. "What do you think of the view?"

"Viðarr"