set to self destruct

[Viking Sigurdr]

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589 words. <3!

There were no set feelings that came to mind when 'King picked up his weapon day by day. The axe was fairly large, nearly waist high to the giant, passed down from a father he never knew. Any hopes of seeing him now were impossible, and the warrior had to turn away from his former life and into this new one. His weapon, like the helmet he wore, was a representation of the Warrior Band, and the last traces that remain flowed through his blood - the king's blood. But a weapon wasn't simply something that one wielded and struck an opponent with, it was an extension of the arm, and the flow of the body guiding the weapon to where it needed to go. A weapon was strong, and limitless, and held no doubt when biting into its victim, drawing out a potentially deathly result.

Training, therefore, was to build the body to become a weapon, as well. Every fiber of a warrior's being, to Viking's standards, needed to be sculpted for battle - whether or not there was one on the horizon. The gods were constantly watching, as were the king and queen of the Band, who may as well have been gods themselves. It became ingrained into the minds of every wolf, then, that the gods were always watching, even if the leaders themselves weren't. This was one reason the bone colored wolf wandered out into the frosty morning, to hopefully prove himself worthy to be a warrior on these lands, under the protection of the celestial beings he believed in, even though the eyes of his former king and queen were not upon him.

A distant crack of a tree alerted the foreign warrior, face hardening as 'King listened intently. He knew it came from the black stranger in the distance, and 'King waited expectantly for the shadow to react to his, well, greeting. From within the trees, red-violet eye could see the male reacting, tensing up from where he crouched on the ground. The giant expected nearly every reaction, watching with a neutral expression when shocking blue eyes met his own single one, and once eyes had locked, Viking heard the warning sounds given by the shadow.

It was to be expected, too. To anyone else, they might have thought it a threat, or backed away instantly. To the bone washed male, this was the moment to show another warrior (judging from the weapon in his hand and the muscles that held the man's form) the sign of regard. On the wind, the giant scented that the male was part of the pack with a queen he now had the duty of protecting, and therefore, to the off-white colored fighter, they were brothers. Not by blood, but by a silent pact made under the eye of Thor, the mottled sunlight drifting through the trees - watching both figures that day.

Ears twitched as the shadow ahead remained growling, and slowly Viking positioned his feet at even angles from his body, standing straight as both hands gripped the worn handle of his weapon. Gripping it tightly, the giant angled the blade pointing downwards, lifting it up for the other male to see. After a brief moment, both hands slid near the end of the weapon handle and the blade whistled through the air and bit into the cold, hard ground. Both hands still on the hilt, the braided warrior's gaze dropped to the floor, showing - in his way - a warrior's sign of respect.