ride to meet your fate

Víðarr · 10-25-2024, 10:16 AM

Víðarr doesn't need to study the elk alone for long. A boy, the same age as his own pups, appeared from the bleak landscape. The viking king's gaze is stony as it sets on the child, though his tone is incredulous. "Of course they are acting strangely. Ragnarök is coming-- the end of days. The end of us all." The prey could feel it, much the same as the wolves. Everyone can feel it, the unease that lives in their bones. Víðarr's gaze is sharp, unblinking. Unshaken, in the face of the fates.

It's when Lumine appears, that his gaze is pulled off the herd for the first time. Chin setting on his daughter's forehead briefly, a warm greeting for the girl. How she'd grown... how long had he been away? Dragged south by the betrayer, with no hope of watching his rightful children grow into themselves, become the adults they were meant to be. Had Erik sent her? There's no scent of wretched boy hanging on her, and it seems she has the same goal in mind.

She's right. One more... ah. There's one more nearby, though its shape is distorted. A man, but something that isn't quite right. Maybe he's paranoid, maybe it's another sign that he's not... not all there. "Det är inte en varg," spoken only to his daughter, where she stands at his shoulder, the words are quiet. His mother tongue still tasted like home in his mouth. The closest they'd get out here, within the barren landscape still cold enough to rouse life in his bones. The large stranger would still likely be useful in a hunt-- Víðarr would take it, regardless.

Squeezing his eyes shut for only a moment, allowing the pressure there to build through his sinuses. When Víðarr opens his eyes again, blood begins to drip down his face. A fearsome image, a marauder taking flight. "The doe, in the rear. She limps." Addressing the party with his observation for only a moment, and offering Lumine a nod before he takes off at a dead sprint. Any notion of the soreness in his bones long forgotten, the shadow sweeps across the land as he always has.

Fast enough to close the gap, Víðarr's heart pounds in his chest. Quickly, he's upon the elk that he'd sighted before. No antlers on this one, a safer target than most, especially if they've destabilized in some way. With gnashing teeth and a snarl deep in his throat, the viking king grabs at his prey's shoulder. Raw violence, and the pursuit of a singular task. The feel of warm fur in his mouth and the panicked cry of the beast spur him on.

"Víðarr"

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