Whitebark Stream don't corner me

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The skjaldbrjótr thundered through the taiga with vengeance. With steps that threatened to crack the earth beneath him; with hands that had once crushed skulls beneath their pressure. Jaws that were meant to saw and crush bone ajar with pants. A heavy, old hide of a grizzly slain long ago blankets his back. Fresh wounds adorn his sturdy limbs; a result of a clash with rogues who'd dared steal one of his kills. It was merely a prick at the wall of muscle, merely an annoyance as he searched for his kin.

The sound of rushing water, coupled with the scent of another, draws him forth. Deep-set eyes narrowed with intent, now honed in on a fagr lítill vargr. head dipped beneath the currents, deafening him. Leaving him vulnerable. A deep, pleased rumble stirs in the Viking's chest as he does not prowl forward, but thunders. His presence is alarming, foreboding, and yet there is no malice in his eyes. Not yet. Instead, curiosity. Attraction.

A womanly figure, dark and ash-kissed. He decides then, that this little wolf will be his.

Muscle coils tight beneath broad, battered shoulders. His massive head tilting, eyes voraciously traveling down those slender sides. His chuckle is deep and gravelly. "Why little wolf trying to breathe water?"