the mountains are calling

The rough, the rowdy, they aren't strangers. In all chaos, there's calculation-- Víðarr knows it. He suspects Modesty knows it too, perhaps better than he does. The viking king's smile is rakish, the play of warm firelight over his rough-hewn features. The back and forth, the dance of it all... he can't help but bask in the attention. While Víðarr may misplace some of the nuance, there's something overt in the way the woman looks at him. Politics had never been his strong suit, but this? This wasn't so bad.

At the more salacious comment, the viking king allows his gaze to rake over the woman's features rather pointedly once more. Pretty face, antlers, quills, a bit on the lighter side for his taste but-- yeah no, she's hot. He'd plead the fifth on her more salacious comments, at least pretending they'd gone over his head. Maybe his smile is telling enough. For as much as he basks in the attention, the viking king also loves his wife. Instead, there's talk of the raid. "If we win, a barrel of your finest. If you win, one of ours." A pricy, but not extravagant wager. Something that seemed fair, for their troubles. Eyebrow lifting, a little dare.

"Víðarr"