with the strength of two great bears

It wasn't so much that Viðarr was tired, no. It was something else. Something different. It was a certain soul-deep sort of tired that came from being on the road for so long. Though his people were travelers (raiders, really) by nature, the sort of travel that he and his family did was different. They hadn't rested in far too long. Now that they were somewhere they actually liked... somewhere they could maybe rest for real? Well, that's when the floodgates opened. Much like having a good meal when you don't realize how hungry you are, Viðarr was finally able to address just how tired he was, and how tired he had been.

Things were getting better now. It had been a few weeks since they'd arrived, and camp had been set. It was nice. The family was together, or as together as they ever were. Wanderers, you know? Still, they had their base camp. They were learning about the locals and their culture, honing their skills, putting themselves out. Viðarr was becoming very fond of their little place beside the wall. Each day, he found himself exploring further out, learning more, doing more.

This was the farthest he'd been yet, the day grey and dreary around him. The grey days were his favorite, as they kept the heat at bay. It was mid-morning that he found his way to the side of the lake, lowering his velveteen muzzle for a long drink. Always alert, always ready for anything, Viðarr could just feel the promise of the day around him.
"Viðarr"