Caught in the wind

The viking king was always ready and raring to go-- it's part of his charm. It's part of his brilliance. It's part of all the things that make him the bloody and brilliant king he is. With long strides that seem to eat the ground beneath his feet, the man arrives on the battle field. Drawn in by the sound of a call, by the beautiful day, by the violence that seemed to rest inside his bones. It lives there, just as he does. Coexists. Always right beneath the surface, always ready. An undercurrent of gore and something far worse just beneath the surface.

Víðarr drew to his full height as his opponent faded into view. At his flanks, his companions echoed his confident posture. Closing the distance, coming to rest opposite the challenger, Víðarr's icy gaze fell down upon the stranger. Something smelled maybe a bit familiar, but the viking couldn't place it. He couldn't be assed, either. There was a fight on the horizon. A bit of a wild, unhinged glimmer in his eye, he offered a smile to the strange. "Did you come to fight, or just like to yell?" He chuckles, squaring his stance. Something wild had come alive in him today.

"Víðarr"