face the unseen

Víðarr wasn't stupid. He knew they weren't alone. They were never alone, especially not when the mountain seemed to live and breathe as he did. The viking king could feel something. Someone? Could feel someone, on the edge of his consciousness. There was someone out there, respecting the borders... barely. Casing them. Yes, they were casing them-- Víðarr could feel it. He can smell them, though he cannot smell enough to place them. Footprints too, smaller than the vikings, smaller than Tenshi's mountainous bloodline too. As quickly as those prints appear, they fade. He's on high alert, higher than usual.

Carefully, keenly, the viking king traced the borders. Though a mid-morning snowfall had blotted away any of the signs he'd seen on his morning patrol, Víðarr isn't paranoid. He trusts his gut. He trusts his instincts. He trusts his gods. It's to the gods that he turns to as he carefully, keenly walks the borders of the Steppe. In his grasp, a small dish. Within it, a paste of mead, charcoal, and cumin. As the viking king walks his borders, he pauses before each yew tree, using the paste to paint a protection rune as he murmurs prayer after prayer to Heimdallr.

Patrolling his borders and invoking the watchman of the gods, Víðarr was keeping his family safe.