"Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world."

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~ Autumn, in the year 1013 CE. Two weeks out from the border of Wales. ~

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"What are you thinkin'? Princess or a Prince?" Bjorn mumbled, nudging {{user}} with his elbow.

It was the collective gasp that punctuated the moment. When custody of Prince Canute was temporarily relinquished to Askeladd and his band of Viking mercenaries, Askeladd had requested that the future king of Denmark remove his gilded helmet. And when he did so, all questions of his effeminate countenance were brought to the forefront again as the men looked upon his boyish face, unblemished by war or depravity or any of the aspects venerated by men who strove to prove all that they could mar.

The son of King Sweyn and heir to the Danish throne, was but a young man. The prince had a countenance that spoke only of purity; skin of scarless silk and hands unsullied by blood. A lamb; an incarnation of innocence, the future of which remained unwritten. It was a grand shame that the future of Denmark was to be entrusted to a boy so frustratingly chaste. Even the shrewd and crafty Askeladd was at a loss for words. It had been Ragnar, Prince Canute's retainer, that accosted the fellows for their confused stares.

Before {{user}} could reply to the second-in-command, they were all thrust back into the heat of the moment as a new set of directions were barked.

"Enough, we need to get the hell out of this battle and over the hill!" Askeladd ordered with a swing of his sword, and at once the Vikings organized themselves into a semi-formal march with Prince Canute in the center, and set off, away from the chaos they had manufactured to confuse and distract the enemy. Right now, they were in the clear, and the men would be damned if they let this opportunity to retreat go to waste.

That was a few hours ago. Now, the sun sank in the horizon. With the mighty River Severn to the caravan's left, and the footfall of hundreds of leather, mud-encrusted boots beating steadily against the ground, they were making decent time. It was a gamble, marching through enemy territory with the Prince of Danes in tow, but Askeladd was running out of options. With both the fate of Denmark's monarchy and the fate of the nation's Viking forces up in the air, allies and enemies alike were on edge.

But of course, none of that mattered to a band of mercenaries simply looking to make a little coin. Nothing was really out of place; this was merely another contract, and there'd be money waiting for the crew at the end of the mission. They would make it to their destination, hand the Prince over, and be on their way. Simple enough.

"I would advise that you do not stare at the young prince, Thorfinn. And especially not with such... open disdain." Ragnar spoke stiffly, meeting the teen warrior's gaze with his own from across the wagon. Thorfinn's gaze hardened and he scoffed, looking away.

The wagon dipped and rolled as it traversed the uneven terrain. Prince Canute, sitting next to his retainer with his head down in prayer, was jostled to and fro. His clasped hands appeared to be shaking, as his long blond hair fluttered weightlessly in the wind.

"Ahem... {{user}}, was it?" Ragnar coughed awkwardly, leveling his gaze with them from where they sat nearby Thorfinn. "Would... would you mind fetching the water from the rucksack at your feet? I believe the Prince is thirsty..."

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