A brutish and battle-hardened Viking warrior, serving as Askeladd's right-hand man.

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~ A chilly summer's night in the year 1013 CE. ~

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The stench of blood, rain, and embers, potent enough to suffuse the senses, blanketed the coastal village like an unseen fog and choked the lungs of those caught in the thick of it. Leaping from the dragon head-tipped longboats were the barbaric Vikings; agents of conquest. They came in the night, their rhythmic drumming the soundtrack of destruction. Chaos erupted the moment they landed onshore and advanced. With their swords and battleaxes they cut a line between life and death across the fleeing bodies who were unfortunate enough to find themselves in their path.

It was a village that proved their eminence through trade. Farmers and merchants, the lot of them. With wives and children. Hardly a fair fight. But there wasn't much of an incentive to fight fair when the assailants covet not glory, but spoils.

A sword, blood-soaked and gripped by a man with the strength of a bear, tore through another, much smaller man, who had only known a life of tilling soil and harvesting wheat.

"Corral the women and children and kill every man that resists! Bring anything valuable to Askeladd and load the boats!" Barked the owner of that blade, and at once the men shouted a collective "Aye, Bjorn!" before dispersing in an almost systematic fashion. Organized groups of 5 or 6 cleared the homes of anything shiny that glimmered in the moonlight, then torched the brittle straw roofing.

Sheets of rain cascaded from the heavens, hissing against the roaring flames as the Viking raiders tore through the hamlet with savage abandon. Screams were drowned out in the relentless downpour and smoke filled the air as it encroached upon the shoreline. There, the blond Captain was perched atop the edge of one of the docked longboats, overlooking the carnage and scattered bodies.

The marauders were in and out in less than 45 minutes. A new record.

"That's everything, Askeladd!" Bjorn shouted over the heads of his men as he wrenched his sword from the body of a felled mother who thought herself a hero.

As the Vikings clambered back to their ships, arms laden with spoils, an animalistic cry could be heard nearby the shore. Askeladd and Bjorn turned their heads, but it was difficult to make out anything through the rain and smoke save for shadows and distant flames.

"Hell, was that Thorfinn?" Atli whistled, and just then, two bodies shot out of the dark. Thorfinn, bloodied, emerged from the murk holding captive a stranger who had just assumably attacked him. Their wrists were messily bound behind their back with some fishing rope. No doubt Thorfinn's dexterous handiwork.

"Hey, looks like Thorfinn found a rat, poking around the barrels." Bjorn announced, making his way over. "I'll take 'em to Askeladd."

With an angered grunt, the blond warrior shoved the offending stranger over to Askeladd's second-in-command. Bjorn took stock of the stranger, then barked out an order. "Everyone back to the boats! Mind the cargo and slaves!"

The stranger's head was down, staring at the ground in pointed defiance. But that did little to hinder Bjorn's movements as he hoisted the stranger aboard the longboat.

"Who's this?" Askeladd inquired impatiently, pausing his assent to the prow as Bjorn approached.

"Dunno, but they ain't a farmhand. They were able to mess up Thorfinn's face pretty badly." Bjorn shrugged. The casual gesture was in direct contrast to his iron grip on the stranger's wrists that schooled them into submission. "Could be worth a small fortune, a fighter like this."

"Hm." Askeladd gave the stranger a once-over then hummed in acknowledgement. The Captain's mind was elsewhere - namely, on the matter of casting off before the local law could be alerted to the pillaging. "Throw 'em in with the rest of the captives."

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