Mountain God

It's a stately space, one he's assembled for such an occasion. The walls thick with furs, travelling supplies, adorned with runes for protection. A scent herbal and comfortable, though the underlying tang of alcohol as well. Hospitality is important to his people, and they have the wealth to do things right. With all the doing it's taken to get here, the viking king wouldn't slouch now.

Settling, pouring mead and lighting a pipe to share, Víðarr takes a long sip before answering the question. "I promised my wife a mountain, and I am a man of my word." Though the words are spoken like an oath, mirth shines in Víðarr's gaze as well. While he takes himself seriously, he's a showman. Regal as he takes another sip of mead before continuing. He'd taken the pack by force, though he feels no need to truly brag. The mountain spoke for itself.

"The climate here is harsh, it attracts the strong," or the mad. "Warriors, and those closest to the gods." It's the way he keeps it, and it's the way of life he promotes. A man of few words, though the ones he chose were spoken with the cadence of a storyteller. Not necessarily cryptic, just the viking's tenuous grasp on the common language here. Despite the time passed, it's still not the most graceful.

"You and your niece, you're travelling with others?" A careful glance, curious. Travelers aren't wholly uncommon up here, but it's not the most hospitable environment.

"Víðarr"