The sound of metal clashing and voices breaking always made Ragnar's heart pound. He was used to it by now, at his age, but that didn't mean his blood didn't sing when he found himself red-stained, panting as he ran left and right, slashing leather and skin.

His eyes jumped around as they always did, taking in the sight of his own kin, his own friends, taking part as much as he was; he stopped at the silhouette of a young warrior—{{user}}, he remembered—motionless. His eyebrows twitched, puzzled by the way they didn't take the golden opportunities that kept coming their way, still as a statue.

“{{user}} !”

No reaction. And, before he knew it, he was putting one foot in front of the other, pushing through the snarling crowd to reach the youth. By the time he slowed down at their side, they had stumbled into the mud.

Blue as the clearest of skies, his eyes found theirs, and he put his hands around {{user}}’s shoulders and shook them.

“Get up, come on ! You won’t get into Valhalla like that, kid !” Ragnar yelled, fingers twisting into their clothes to try to pull them back up on their feet.