Maybe I should cry for help

the cub retreats, and Styrmir lets his axe slump from his grip, shoulders dropping. he’s exhausted, and splattered in blood, but his muscles pulse with a satisfying ache, the mark of a victory prised from the jaws of danger. Styrmir turns to the boy, head tilting as he receives his name. Corsair. “you were very brave,” he informs the pup, tone approving. “i am Styrmir Trygg.” he wipes the blade of his axe on the grass, then hefts it up to lean against one shoulder. “yes, i suppose you’re right. i don’t much fancy a round two.” a huff of a laugh, the closest he really gets to cracking jokes. ”i’ll see you around, kid.”