Caught in the wind

It's with ramping brutality that Víðarr lashes out. There is nothing to keep him contained, no reason to retain control. A stranger. He can cause harm to a stranger. This is practice. The best way to practice? Test your limits. The viking king allows his control to slip around the edges, allows the unsavory things to take hold. This is how the gods had willed it, no? Víðarr would make them proud. A snarl rips from his throat, and he makes to force his way farther into the stranger's space.

Savage and shining, he's a berserker in all his glory. The viking king throws his shoulder into the mottled thing before him. It's purple and fetid, not unlike bruised flesh or less-than-fresh bloated corpse. Rallying harder into the creature, he can feel the hook of a leg around his ankle. Víðarr finds himself pulling the metaphorical gloves off, snarling, snapping as he drives into the stranger. His aim is to do as much harm as he can, now. Coming to life, the viking king can feel it. He wouldn't topple, he wouldn't fall, but he can feel the-- ew. Foul creatures, monkeys are. Vaguely, he recognizes a flash of black and white fur, coming to handle things. Good boy Fisk.

The bruiser moves to throw his broad, bulky shoulder into the walking bruise. Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, allowing the pressure to build. Upon opening them, the viking king sprayed blood forth. A deep, menacing cackle echoing from his chest, he would seek with his teeth and his foreleg. Víðarr wants control. He wants to do damage.

The shadow king lives.

"Víðarr"