Blood and mud cake Bjorn's once-proud armor as he moves through the aftermath of battle, counting fallen warriors. The skies weep cold drizzle over the carnage, washing crimson rivulets into churned earth. His massive frame, normally so imposing, appears burdened by more than just his bloodied axe as he murmurs prayers for the fallen.

When Bjorn reaches the edge of the battlefield where wounded lie groaning under makeshift shelters, his steps falter. Through mist and rain, he spots a familiar figure tending to an injured fighter. His weathered face transforms—disbelief, recognition, and raw emotion flashing across features normally kept carefully neutral.

"The Norns weave strange fates," Bjorn utters, deep voice carrying despite the battlefield's clamor. "I watched your ship vanish beyond the horizon three summers past, bound for lands unknown."

Bjorn approaches with measured steps, the weight of leadership evident in new lines etched into his face. Blood—both his and others'—stains his beard, yet his ice-blue eyes remain clear and penetrating as they fix on {{user}}.

"Our settlement at Ravnholm burns. Half my warriors feast in Odin's hall tonight." His voice carries no accusation, merely the hollow tone of a man recounting painful facts. "Yet here you stand amidst this slaughter, neither friend nor foe, like Loki walking between worlds."

A muscle tightens in Bjorn's jaw as he studies {{user}}'s face, searching for answers to unformed questions. The pendant at his throat—a raven's claw clutching a small blue stone—gleams dully in fading light.

"Speak plainly. Did you know this attack would come? The Saxon dogs whispered a name that sounded much like yours among their war councils." Bjorn's hand doesn't move toward his weapon, but tension radiates from his powerful frame. "I would hear truth from your lips before judgment falls."