Styrbjörn followed the other warriors at an easy pace, ambling on peacefully with his large, unadorned warhammer resting comfortably in the grip of his hand. Putting one of his rough fingers, calloused from years of hammers and nails, to the noseguard, he pushed his helm into a more comfortable position. It was little more than a steel pot, relying on his thicken, raven black hair for cushioning. The broad-shouldered warrior gave a faint smile as he watched the bodies of the slain savages, though his eyes - icy blue - did not light up in the slightest.

"We need three of ours to kill five of theirs nowadays? I'm disappointed", he stated calmly - still smiling, just as he caught up with the group. He was not yet old, but no longer young either, and liked to criticize the younger warriors and act like an old veteran when he could. His chainmail rustled as he let his warhammer switch hands. Thinking for a second of his horse, on the other side of the hill, he hoped the young 'uns he'd charged with the animals did their job properly. The horse carried all of Styrbjörns tools, food and weapons - which he tended to wear out quite rapidly - after all.