Víðarr wasn't stupid. He knew they weren't alone. They were never alone, especially not when the mountain seemed to live and breathe as he did. The viking king could feel something. Someone? Could feel someone, on the edge of his consciousness. There was someone out there, respecting the borders... barely. Casing them. Yes, they were casing them-- Víðarr could feel it. He can smell them, though he cannot smell enough to place them. Footprints too, smaller than the vikings, smaller than Tenshi's mountainous bloodline too. As quickly as those prints appear, they fade. He's on high alert, higher than usual.

Carefully, keenly, the viking king traced the borders. Though a mid-morning snowfall had blotted away any of the signs he'd seen on his morning patrol, Víðarr isn't paranoid. He trusts his gut. He trusts his instincts. He trusts his gods. It's to the gods that he turns to as he carefully, keenly walks the borders of the Steppe. In his grasp, a small dish. Within it, a paste of mead, charcoal, and cumin. As the viking king walks his borders, he pauses before each yew tree, using the paste to paint a protection rune as he murmurs prayer after prayer to Heimdallr.

Patrolling his borders and invoking the watchman of the gods, Víðarr was keeping his family safe.

As Strai made his way to the steppe to hunt and check on the sheep, he caught the scent of Vidarr and something else. Something familiar. He detoured from the sheep, telling himself the Ovis couldn’t get into that much trouble with a few more hours headstart. It wasn’t long before he found the older wolf, and the scent that had nagged at him.

He sat back on his hunches, and watched as Vidarr painted a protection symbol on the tree. He had not had much time to study the gods, between lessons of survival and raiding. But he knew this one. His mother had painted the same symbol. Protection. “Heimdallr.” He murmured softly, approaching the Demon.


"Speech"

He isn't alone for long. The Thrall boy pads towards him, smelling of sheep and a good day's work. The viking king would allow the shadow of a smile at the corner of his eyes, the corner of his lips, before returning to his thoughtful application of the ward to the tree. If he was going to invoke the gods, then he would do it with his heart. He would do it with his bones. He would invoke them with the power they'd lent him, and he would pray.

A moment later, Víðarr stepped back, satisfied with his work on this one. He turned to the boy, offering a nod. "What do you know of Heimdallr, boy?" The words are curious, they hold no ill will. No mocking. Víðarr simply wants to know exactly how much the child knows about the actions he's taking, the god he's invoking. Exactly what this particular patrol means for the pack as a whole. Maybe there'd be a bit of a religion lesson too, while he's at it.