Stavanger Bay let the fire burn inside you

She was skeptical, and it was clear she'd never crossed paths with the living Ragnar Loðbrok whose physical appearance was gruesome and macabre enough to chill even the strongest of warriors to the bone — or so Thistle had told it. It did not occur to Kjalarr, whom did not remember what his father looked like (if he'd ever actually seen him), that perhaps it might have been a exaggeration to make his saga great, legendary even. “I'm serious,” Kjalarr insisted, his expression morphing into something that resembled deadpan, fixating her in an icy stare. She seemed determined to disregard his story, and although she was right, Kjalarr sincerely doubted Ragnar was going to haunt this place anytime soon for his time was otherwise occupied in Valhalla, Kjalarr was left to deal with the frustration that he could not keep her from her intended plans of sleeping within Stavanger Bay, nor that she seemed unable to take the hint beneath the whole “story”.

Fine. Then he would clarify for her. “So if a deceased, enraged Berserker doesn't scare you off, then let me ask you: what of a living one?” She could not stay here. It wasn't his home anymore, wasn't his territory but it had clearly meant something to his father, meant something to his mother. Thus, it meant something to him. “I'm telling you you can't stay here,” His voice dropped low, his lips curling back from his teeth: a clear sign of aggression. “Find somewhere else to dream of your captain,” He mocked her with a cruel sneer tugging at the edges of his lips. “Or you'll awake drowning in your own blood.” It was a promise more than it was a threat. The wound of his father's desecrated grave way way too fresh for Kjalarr to move on from it and he wasn't going to have it. He'd intended to stay the night in Stavanger Bay and he was not known for his willingness to share.