the mountains are calling

The viking king's icy gaze glimmers, watching the woman's face as she takes a sip of the mead. She's quick to discern the honey, although that gaze does dance across her pretty face. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips. Tall, but lighter than the average viking, and with no tolerance to boot-- the shadow would play in the grey area between angel and demon. Pouring a small cup of tea, and then adding another dollop of honey to both the tea and the mead. The common tongue isn't his own, and perhaps he's a bit dense, though he'd allow his gaze to return rather appreciatively to Modesty as he returns to sip his own mead. A bit of extra hone would help hers go down easier, sweeter. The container sits on the table, golden and sticky, beside the large near-full pitcher of alcohol.

"We are celebrating you stepping up," it's warmth. If she'd usurped Gilgamesh, then she was smart. Strong. If someone was messing with children, Víðarr was happy to be the consequences of their actions. The whole thing certainly had nothing to do with the fact that she was a pretty milf. Certainly not. A rakish grin played across his dark features, pouring himself another glass of mead where he sits across from the woman. "And maybe becoming friends." A bit forward, yes, but the kindness so far had been mutual. The benefits were clear. Though he'd been tight about security on the mountain, if he could call the Raiders friends, Víðarr could feel a bit better about making exceptions for Sakana.

"Víðarr"