Horizon Ridge Stubborn is as Stubborn does (Bjorn)

Björn was good at being deceptive, it was an art he had practiced since he was young, and just because he didn’t like it, pretending to be something less than what he was, it didn’t mean he wasn’t skilled at it. Björn was nothing to these wolves, he did not have any false illusions, but in his stone cold heart he was a Jarl through and through, and nothing - not distance, or another home - would ever change that. The fawn girl’s words contradicted Björn’s dismissal of his wound, and the Viking scoffed at her, rebutting with a gruff, “I’ve had worse mær,”. The Nord did not look at wounds the same way as others did. Scars were trophies to be treasured, not ugly markings to be avoided. He tilted his scarred head towards her, as if to indicate to the ugly scars that almost stole the handsomeness from his left, unmarred half. “I do not fear a festering wound.” In essence, he did not fear death either, though he was not destined to go for years. He was young, and had things to do, missions given to him by Odinn himself.

The fawn colored girl had came back with a shell full of swirling salt water, and Björn ceased his licking at the wound, the taste of his blood lingering metallic in his mouth, different as it was from the taste of a prey’s blood. She called him a word whose meaning he was not fluently aware of ruffian but he assumed it was equivalent of ‘trouble-maker’ though in truth, he did not know. He chose not to answer her warning - for he knew full well that it would hurt - simply let the muscles of his body pull taunt as the cool water spilled from the shell and into his wound, burning as it rinsed through it and spilled down his fur, much like his blood had moments ago.

A hard grunt was given at the initial rush of hotter pain, but aside form that Björn did not make further noise. “You worry too much, mær.” Björn spoke through clenched jaw and gritted teeth.