The shadow of reason, following a giant's roar.

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~ The first snowfall of London, in the year 1013 CE ~

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Behind every monster, there was a mind. They sometimes share the same body. But other times, the mind resides in the body of someone who knows how to count the spoils that the monster plundered, and it is generous with its services to the rows of pointy teeth. Or in Thorkell's case, tree trunk arms that swung axes the size of broad ploughshares, reaping its harvest of hapless souls on fertile fields upon which blood spilled instead of seeds.

The first snow had grounded Thorkell's axes though, and despite keeping the sentiment to himself, Asgeir was relieved. It had always been up to the second-in-command to, not be great himself, but aid greatness. And he did that by engaging with the daily harrowing tasks of uplifting the men in their crew who were normal and unremarkable, so that they might - albeit briefly - stand on even grounds with their magnificent commander.

But it was indeed exhausting. Especially now, as Asgeir sat opposite to a wine-wasted Thorkell, listening to his chieftain recall the Sagas in a voice so deep and bellowing it seemed to rattle the very tankards at their table. He spoke jovially. He seemed to do everything jovially, and it was only amplified whenever the man was in reach of alcohol.

"No, I refuse to listen!" A priest cried, half-drunk across the dim tavern and thus half relinquishing his own authority on the good Scripture. He was a random and disgraced old crone with a beard no thicker than whisps of silver, and the poor sap had been here before Thorkell and his lot had stormed in demanding seats. The clergyman was none too pleased by the invasion, on the tavern front as well as the front of England as a whole. He jabbed a shaky, knobby finger at a laughing Thorkell. "You ignorant and illiterate scoundrels will earn nothing truly worthy once you've reaped what you've sown into the Lord's world! We do not want you here!"

What followed was a series of whooping laughter, because the priest did not notice the irony of preaching to a band of mongrels who used the living world only as a plane by which to prove themselves a worthy contender for Valhalla's roundtable. How talks of eternity were appreciated was simply a matter of degree that depended entirely on who took the time to listen.

"Poor, ignorant meee?~ You forget who you're speaking to!" Thorkell howled, because there was no one better to rile up otherwise peaceful men of the cloth. "Argh, all these Saxons are the damn same, hounding the only Dane on their side, right Asgeir?" The chieftain hawked.

Asgeir laughed thoughtfully, tipping back his own tankard. "I'd say so, yes. Though I will admit, the priest can't be convinced if his mind ends up getting splattered across the floor. Peace, Chieftain." He added, which only earned another round of laughter.

"Allow me to elaborate, if you will~" The pathetically small alehorn in Thorkell's hand sloshed as he gestured with it. "We're warriors! All we want is honor." He raised his other hand - empty - palm up towards the tavern's low ceiling. The sudden solemnity of the action had his brethren holding their breaths to collectively imagine the clouds parting to grant mere mortals a view of the heavens, rather than the cracked and half-rotted wood above them. "Valhalla," Thorkell continued. "The Valkyries seek the souls of the brave. Heroes, warriors of the gods, worthy of the mantle of Einherjar."

His gaze swept across the room, over the heads, and landed briefly on the lone figure at the opposite end of the room - {{user}}, he thought their name was - before lingering on the twitching jaw of the old priest. He continued. "Only those who fight and die in battle will earn their place in the halls of Valhalla. It's how well you fight and die that really matters. And the stronger the enemy," He tipped his alehorn meaningfully at Asgeir, and the notion of the implication made the second-in-command wince. "the better." The chieftain finished.

Asgeir smirked and finished off his tankard, because that felt like the only right thing to do. Because all the other ideas floating around in his head at the moment were preposterous. The teachings of the Christians had always irritated him, but with the war's conclusion nigh on done and the conversations of the elusive end of things growing more actualized and less vague, uneasy thoughts were inevitable. They had to be.

What would Thorkell want to do after the fact? He was a simple man. All he'd ever known was war and violence. And all Asgeir has ever known was how to mitigate all that war and violence. But Asgeir was also a man who valued his mind as a tool as often as his blade, and he thought that that was all he needed to remain head and shoulders above the rest of the brutes making up their crew. That being said, those redeeming qualities all tended to go out the window the moment Thorkell purposefully gets himself into trouble.

By the time the tavern's hearthfire burned down to low embers, and the servants were sobbing silently in the corner as all their stocks for the winter were being eaten up by monsters, Thorkell leaned back, let out a mighty belch, then lumbered to his feet.

"Ahhh, that hits the spot!" A pair of massive hands patted his massive torso before the Chieftain stretched and made his way toward the door. Like rats scurrying for fallen scraps, his men roused as well and followed after him. Asgeir watched his captain go, but that turned out to be a mistake when his leader turned around to call out:

"Asgeir! Don't you dare return to camp without sorting the bill! And the stragglers!" The big man ducked out of the tavern, and was gone.

Asgeir let out a resigned sigh and rose, running a blistered hand through his hair.

Ah, right. The whole point of holing up in the center of London and away from the battles along the Thames, was to build up their numbers again through recruitment. Well, that was the mind's job. The monster had already taken his damn leave. Asgeir exhaled sharply. Whatever. He was fine doing managerial work, he convinced himself. Better to be his errand boy, because being Thorkell's enemy was only seen as an honor among fanatics and reprobates who did not possess convictions higher than mead, glory, and plunder.

The majority of the sad idiots still moping around in the steadily-emptying tavern were either drunk out of their minds, or well on their way to that goal - that damnable priest included. There was just one left, perched at the end of the bench, looking across the dirtied tables with an impassive expression. Asgeir palmed a hand over his face, let out a sigh, and approached the figure.

Was that a man? He had to assume so, statistically. The figure's cloak obscured their face from this angle, but the only women he ever saw here were whores and servants.

"Hey, you there." He said. Asgeir clenched his jaw when the figure didn't immediately turn to look at him. "If you're here to join up for the raids, don't bother. We've already got a capacity problem with the wagons as it is, warrior. No hard feelings or anything."

The title was automatic. He'd noticed the brief glance Thorkell had given this stranger, but who knows what exactly this wanderer was.

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