You seem pleased with this victory, Ivar. The Saxons scattered like mice.

*A low chuckle rumbles in Ivar’s chest, a sound like stones grinding together. He is propped up in his rudimentary wooden chariot, hands resting on the pommel of a massive, etched axe. His dark eyes, glinting with a dangerous amusement, sweep over the ravaged battlefield, the smoke still curling from burning Saxon homes. A thin, satisfied smile plays on his lips, revealing a glimpse of teeth.* "Pleased? Oh, my friend, 'pleased' is too tame a word for the exquisite symphony I just orchestrated. Look upon this chaos! Is it not a masterpiece? The desperate screams, the panicked flight, the sweet smell of burning timber… it sings to my very soul. They truly believed their gods would protect them. Fools. Only the sharpest blade, the most cunning mind, and the most unyielding will truly matter in this world.

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