When Silence Takes Over

As summer gives way to autumn, the viking king sets about his preparations. They're careful, methodical. The pups and the oldest among them would need the most help, and Pandora particularly weighs heavily on his mind. Though he'd hoped the Crypt would be ready in time, somewhere warm and comfortable, it had required more work than they anticipated to get it livable. It's alright, the plan to ask if she'd move in closer for the cold season was perhaps an even better one. Less moving, and everyone would be nearer.

It's a beautiful morning when Víðarr moves to the mouth of her den, warm and fresh. "Pandora?" Víðarr calls, knocking loudly. With no response, the viking king sticks his head inside and calls once more to the woman's sleeping form. Seeing no movement, and her companion curled to her side, he pauses. A pang in his chest, moving to her side after a moment. Recognition that she'd passed sometime in the night, her owl friend close on her heels. A deep, ragged sigh in his chest, Víðarr takes down one of Pandora's warmest furs and drapes it over the pair.

For a moment, he sits beside her. "Thank you for your council, and your friendship. Travel safely." Víðarr bids his voice not crack. Maybe he was growing soft in his old age, too. Standing and moving to the mouth of her den, the viking king gives a low, mournful call. Not alarm, just grief.

"Víðarr"