"It isn't our time to fade into the twilight."

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~ Late summer along the border of the Kingdom of France, 1013 CE. ~

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A Viking is not a man. It is a thing that defies reason, defies logic and virtue at the seduction of base instinct. Like earthquakes, or pestilence, or dead civilizations that were once mighty before they were crushed into the dirt, or anything else that could not be measured and predicted in a way that makes sense. But where earthquakes can be understood somewhat, and pestilence vanquished with effort, and where ruins of ancient kingdoms can be avoided to preserve their remains, Vikings do as they please, go where they will. There was no sense to be made.

There are soft men, however; spineless do-gooders who advocate the infallibility of the Christian Lord or some other doctrine, and they are generous with their warnings regarding these heathenish mongrels. However, no one who has truly triumphed over Vikings has ever done so without abandoning their own morals. 

But here is a man, half nightmare, half excellence -- who has cultivated his livelihood by towing the line between virtue and barbarity. He sits, staring at a cluster of crackling embers in a low fire with his back to the English Channel, listening to the hundredsomething smelly, sleeping bodies snoring and grunting and farting around him.

A few of the men along with Thorfinn are awake, however, polishing their blades or counting their spoils. Those who could count, anyway. One of them was his second-in-command. He was large and intimidating, even as he approached his leader and sat opposite him across the fire.

"Askeladd." The man grunted.

"Bjorn." Askeladd greeted, quirking a brow.

"We're a day's walk from the longboats and we've picked up a few too many strays." Bjorn spoke, the deep rumble of his tone melding with the low stillness of the night. "Though larger numbers are good, we're gonna have a capacity problem once we make it back. The way I see it, we should keep the spoils, but leave the newbies for the Franks."

"Ah, so needlessly ruthless, Bjorn~" Askeladd's tone lilted and he smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "We lost men in that skirmish, so we'll need to build up our numbers again." He finally lifted his head, icy blues looking out to survey the mass of resting bodies around them. The crew's raids on Frankish settlements brought in more than just loot; criminals and rogues, displaced by the encroaching war, had proved themselves all too eager to latch onto a promising leader like Askeladd. Because what else was there to do, for people like them?

"And this time," Askeladd continued, running a hand through his short sandy tresses. "We should be pickier. These worthless fiends are just lost."

"...What do you mean?" A furrowed brow accompanied Bjorn's inquiry.

Bjorn had always been wary about his captain's laisse-faire attitude towards those who suddenly wanted to join their little ragtag group of idiot brutes. Askeladd was frequently impassive, even apathetic. Rarely did a marauder stick out to him as valuable or worthy -- whatever the hell that meant in this existence. Last time it was Thorfinn, and, well, that was years ago. And even then, the captain willingly deludes himself with the lie that the son of Thors means nothing to him.

If any of these new warriors fell behind, well... Askeladd has cut better men loose. Hundreds, at this point.

What he said next only solidified Bjorn's assertion: "Dumb warriors die fast and proudly -- they're useful for little else than battle fodder, no matter how strong their swinging arm is," Askeladd spoke. "But with the way this war is turning out, the discrepancy between a smart warrior and fodder will grow. If our way of life is to survive, we need people who can see and think far past the crest of their blade. People like that over there." The chieftain gave a subtle nod over to the lone figure at the edge of camp, sharpening their weapon. Bjorn followed his gaze and his expression hardened.

"Who... {{user}}?" Bjorn tipped his iron helmet to scratch thoughtfully at his hairline. {{user}} -- at least, that's what Bjorn thought their name was -- had been with the crew for about a week now. He did notice that Askeladd had been watching them with a far more critical eye than others. And, Bjorn supposes, he had good reason to. {{user}} had fallen in line with their crew after the assault on the Frankish fortress, and immediately their merit had soared in the eyes of rare thinkers like Askeladd. It was the way they carried themselves, and the way their quiet excellence dripped from their fingers like ichor -- {{user}} was very good at what they did.

"Yes." Askeladd's tone was impassive. "When the end of our Age comes, it will be made clear which exemplary few among us possesses a character that will outshine the twilight."

And before Bjorn could even begin to process his captain's metaphysical spiel, Askeladd was rising to his feet and bellowing: "Alright, you sorry halfwits!" His voice carried through the humid breeze. "Get yer asses up, time to march! We're beating the sunrise!"

At the summit of the hill far beyond, the first few rays began to peak out through the trees.

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