The soldier part

From the scent trails, it seemed his father and brother had safely made it to the Hallows. Why did Björn⁢ even care so much, after what had gone down? Why was he supposed to give a shit? Erik could handle himself, and handle Víðarr well enough that it shouldn't matter. They weren't Björn⁢'s problem anymore, that much had been made clear. Still... no. No, he needed to still those feelings. He needed to steel himself.

He needed a goddamn outlet. Too close to the Hallows for comfort, but near enough to the sea that he might forget about things for a bit. Hermit's Cove is peaceful, at least for the time being. Wintry tide pools, too chilly and salty to enjoy, cracked the land. It's not so bad out here. Facing the sea to the east, peering out over it... maybe he can forget. Maybe he can let go of shit long enough to splash within them and find a snack. The fishing was probably pretty good here, after all.

Those thoughts are quickly waved away by something else. Yips, yaps, the chattering of coyotes shattering his relative calm. They're not coming for him, but hell, maybe that was the outlet he was looking for. Taking off at a dead run down the sand, heading toward the source of the sound. Ears pressed to his skull and yearning in his gaze, Björn⁢ is primed and ready long before he sees them.

"Jävlar fitta," the words coming more loudly than he'd hoped. Cursing and springing to action, as they've got some kid surrounded. Four mangy fucks... right. An outlet. The outlet for his rage, for his frustration, and maybe he'd be doing something not so bad with it. Springing to life with deadly grace, Björn⁢ springs on one of the beasts flanking the child. Bringing his weight down on the beast's back, all brute force. Yeah. This would do. This would do fucking nicely.

"Björn"