no fear of death, he's unshakeable

They'd done well in their first raid.  Quite well.  Víðarr was pleased with that, and pleased with the dedication he'd been seeing from his fighters.  They were a good crew, and they'd only get better.  They'd only get better with time, they'd only get better with practice.  With his head high and a glimmer in his eye, he considered the pack as they stood.  Spring had sprung most places, though the mountain may not have quite gotten the notion.  The viking king swept down the mountain, something brilliant and excitable in his step.  A spring, what a glorious spring in his step.  Maybe there's something wild about him, given the circumstances.  Who could blame him?  He'd gotten his fledgling pack through the most difficult season, in the harshest terrain.  The gods had blessed him.  The gods had blessed them.  Víðarr would continue to do right by them, in every way he could.  

Part of that meant conducting another raid, taking the opportunity to bring the spring yearlings out too.  To the northwest, the lands that the viking king had initially set his sights on when settling Boreas.  He knew them well, and he knew that they would be teeming with prey very, very soon.  To hunt those lands, while learning the patterns of nature in his own?  That sounded ideal.  Lighting a fire in the large pit within the Steppe, Víðarr tipped his head back and let go a deep, excited call.  It would be go time very, very soon.  They would be headed to the Armada with intent to conduct a hunt on their lands.  

Dusk was beginning to settle.  They would strike tonight.  Waiting for all the raiders brave, bold enough, he built up the fire.  Coaxed it to life.  He took a long draw from one of the last bottles of liquor from his original band's stores, and then splashed a bit on the flames.  A prayer on his lips to the gods, an offering.  Víðarr's gaze glimmered in the firelight.  By the gods, it was everything the viking king could ask it to be.  

"Víðarr"