ragnarök awaits

Víðarr

The lands shift and change, though he skirts the sand. An old dog following the same path he'd walked time and time again, staying far away from the desert. Though there was no sun to warm the sand, it would only slow his progress. The boy flanking him little more than an annoyance, though Víðarr is left to stew on all the bad feelings kicking up in his throat. Was that really his boy? Had he ever been? Showing nowhere near the aptitude that Akito had, and maintaining none of the connection he'd had to Morganna... maybe Erik wasn't his son at all. He'd simply been the one to attach to the viking king, and should have been turned away sooner.

Was the child, grown as he was, even worthy of his name? The thoughts in his head quiet, though, when they reach a break in the landscape. Something that certainly hadn't been here before. Stone, though wildly different from the marble wash. It's cool against his paws, as Víðarr slows first to a jog, then a walk. Weaving his way through the spires, gaze intense on each one. Rising mighty and tall, growing proud and massive within the space.

"Ragnarök," the only word on his lips, spoken like an omen. Nearing one of the spires and looking up in reverence, tracing its path to the red sky. A dastardly smile spreading across his face, Víðarr can't help himself. It's true. All of it has been true, for as long as he's known. Every word of the stories, the tales, the things they'd been told... everything had been spoken into existence. Generations of tradition, it's all as it was foretold.

"Víðarr"

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