Stavanger Bay Ever Consuming Fire

He suspected that he had internal bleeding. Perhaps one of his fractured ribs snagged against his insides and cut it open. It had happened to him before, but probably not as severe as before. The remedy of stinging nettle had a familiar ring in his ear; it was the same the druids of Albion used.

Mordred thought he recognized the accent that hung onto Ragnar's voice as that of the Berserkers. 'Heathen' wolves as the Catholic priests called them, possessed by demons. There were different types of these Berserkers; he himself was friendly with the Saxon variety. "Indeed. My homeland, especially under the rule of the recent king, was known for the chivalry of the warriors. A code of honor, that was silly and unnecessary. Defeated enemies were often spared instead of killed. Women were to be protected like they were children, yet they were treated like low-class citizens." He let out a rush of air, a snort of contempt. He hated the code, though he saw the need for it.