cut the hand that feeds you

A hellscape of reds and oranges. Erik has never seen anything like it, though he's imagined places like this while his father tells stories. Places that only come out of nightmares, though he curiously splashes down the riverbed. Lifting his muzzle skyward, sniffing at the air. All of it was strange. Erik can't help his curiosities, even if they do get the worst of him. Can't help it. Curious, as he splashes his way down.

He's not alone. A pale girl at the mouth of the cave... Erik knows her. Squinting to himself where he spots her in the distance. Unsure for a moment, but he knows. Picking up a little jog, not trying to conceal himself but not calling out just yet, the viking bastard makes his way closer. Head cocking to the side, clearing his throat loudly. Expression somewhat friendly. As friendly as the boy can manage, or as friendly as he ever bothered with. For most, he wouldn't even bother. Different enough to matter.

"Cool scar." Making his way closer to the girl, cocking his own hind leg to show her. Though his matched, it looks a hell of a lot bigger on Whisper. She wouldn't believe how he'd come about his, probably, but it didn't matter. Erik didn't have the words to tell her. Instead, the boy offered her a confident, brassy smile.

"Speech"