they make their weapons sing

Sanngriðr had picked a fight this morning. It wasn't overall unlike her-- siblings argued. At this point, the shadow didn't even know what she was pissed about. He'd barely been awake when she'd gone off on him. There was no knowing exactly what went on in her head, but it had set a poor tone for the day. Not that Viðarr didn't thrive in chaos, more that he just... he needed to be awake first. Whatever. Whatever had crawled up her ass and died there could stay there, for all he cared. He was going out. Where? Hell, at this point it didn't matter. Anywhere. Anywhere away from her and her piss poor attitude.

They'd make up when they got home. Siblings fought, but he knew that she loved him.

Still, it didn't change the storm cloud that hung over Viðarr's head. The shadow moved fiercely overland, head held high, going... well, hell he wasn't sure of exactly where, but it was enough. Learning the land, mapping, exploring... he'd need to know all of it anyway. With the sun shining uncomfortably down on his back, the man took to the fields and rolling hills of the east. What greeted him as he crossed into the stone steppe was a foreign sight, but not all together unwelcome.

Viðarr paused at the top of a grassy hill and looked curiously out over the land at his feet. What strange country. The shadow could see himself conquering it all, some day. For now though, he'd just take it all in.

"Viðarr"