Wheeling Gull Isle Fallen from God Fallen from grace

Don't we all? She asked, and he did too. Was it something he desired? Ingrained into his mind, taught since birth, was that the thing he should desire the most is the death of a warrior. Above all else, to die with honor in the heat of battle - but was he still such a beast. Within him still, beat the heart of a Birserkir, war-hungry and thirsty for the top; but as he aged, he wasn't certain anymore. The longer he spent away from that pack, the less it seemed to come second nature. 

She described her heaven, intriguing really. 

As she turned her question back onto him, without a moment of thought he answered. Nothing. As sad as a word it was, he felt no remorse. No guilt. 

I see nothing for myself, just darkness. As a pup, I was taught to look forward to a warrior's end, and nothing more. Tilting his head to one side, his eye slid over back from the sea and onto the stary pelt of the princess. That empty stare burrowing deep into her soul, with the same feeling he had back in the pack of barbarians. That boy who killed for ranks with disregard for the life of his elders. Lifeless, soulless, and dreamless; he spoke with a similar air in tone. Pathétisk, er ce pa? Reverting back to the language of his past, as the words tumbled out smoothly, laced with a Danish accent entwining with the French.

A better question is what do I deserve. With a blink, he found himself again, from one beast to the next he jumped in between. Uncertain if the stoic soldier, or the soulless barbarian is whom he truly was - the man straddled the fence on a daily.