There was a pair of clipped sounds as the men dropped, one with a throwing axe lodged in the back of his head and the other caught high on the spine and bowled over by the impact, stumbling over his own feet before landing in the ground face first, his arms outstretched as he gasped and groaned in pain. Making his way towards the pair of them without concern, Adalwulf stepped foreword to reclaim his axes.

He was tall for his age, though quite young-only three winters over the age of Ekkillson, who's death had started this march. Strong of body and brave of heart, it was still to be noted that of his family he was something of a runt-his brother, long dead, had been truly a massive warrior, and his father stood a head taller then he still, even in his age. Set loose on this quest to prove himself against even the gods and the rest of his family, he had left home with little but his brother's axes, which seemed much too large for him, and the pelt of the wolf he had killed long ago to prove himself to his father.

Stories were told of his family by firelight, rumors of their insanity, of their fearsome ways, and he heard what the men whispered at night by the fires when they thought him asleep-that he was dangerous to himself and others, not yet fit for battle, not yet ready to march to Hel. As he grasped the wooden haft of the axe in the man's head and jerked it free with a practiced tensing of his arm, his gaze came to rest on the other man, still struggling to rise from the ground. As his hand rose, the axe in it still red from the other's blood, he knew that he was ready as the sound of splitting bone once more came over the crisp air, and the man below lay silent.

His axes collected, he turned and made his way back towards the others of the group. "We'll have our ambush." he said, his voice strong and steady but crisp like cracking ice and slightly quiet, as though careful not to overstate himself as he slid the axes back into place for when he might next need them.

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