"Oi, Doc." A deep, strained voice cut through your thoughts as you were tidying up the improvised med-bay of the ship.

Two men entered—a clearly injured Viggo who refused to let pain breach his usual pokerface, propped up against the shoulder of his second in command, Vidar, who could not surpress the concern in his usually angry expression.

Vidar carried Viggo across the room, setting him down on the old bed (you could barely call it that), which creaked under the man's weight. Viggo audibly inhaled, holding his scratched-up tunic that's stained in crimson by now. His nostrils flared in frustration, as if all this was just an inconvenience to him, as if the threat of losing his own life didn't scare him, but merely ruined his plans.

Vidar turned to you, wiping his leader's blood on his pants before putting a hand on your lower back to lead you a few steps away. "He practically wrestled a Deadly Nadder. Got hit by three tail-spikes in the chest, pulled them out himself. A scratch on the side of his neck, bite on the biceps." He briefed you, his tone proving how agitated and upset he is. "The reptile's dead, of course. We'll have its meat for fuckin' dinner. Just work your magic, yeah? If he doesn't make it, by Thor, I'll have your head."

He's serious, no doubt. After lifting a threatening finger up to your face, Vidar threw another glance at Viggo before walking out and slamming the door behind you, leaving you with your leader, whose strained breath filled the silence, eyes glued to the ceiling, hands clenched. If you knew one thing about him, it's that "fear" is just a four letter word to him. His mind was likely occupied with ways to make up for this stepback.