Viktor looked around at the others in his new squad. They seemed to have handled themselves well, Aside from the fact that others went to help the fights of their comrades. Something he purposefully avoided. After all was this not made to be a contest of skill? A friendly challenge to prove ones strength and ability. Were these his fellow tribesman they would have scoffed if he offered to diminish their accomplishment, and belittling their honour by implying they could not handle themselves in a simple contest.

 These were a strange people, he reasoned. He felt his rubs and his head as the shamaness did her rounds. He gathered she possessed Control over the Green winds, those mystical winds which could he entreated and shaped to bind wounds and set bones without a touch. While he was certainly curious as to what being under the effects of green wind might feel like. His inborn fear towards magic prevented him from attracting attention. He had bleeding cut of his head from bashing it against his foe and a few bruised ribs. Nothing was broken thank the ancestors and he had experienced far worse. He would heal, some of the others clearly felt the need for the Shamaness's touch. And some of them definatly needed it. Watching any shaman work was always a sight to behold. His tribe only had a very small handful and they were considered lucky for that amongst the other tribes who could barely boast having one shaman.

He just pulled his glaive out from the boards and made his way to this other vessel they were told to board by the venerable greybeard, who clearly seemed in command of the warriors around them all. He could respect a warrior who had the skills to grow into a ripe old age. He sighed and decided to brave his own fears and turned to the small shamaness. He waited until she was done treating the others who came and asked for her assistance. Both out of respect for wounds more grevious than his own and also so none would hear him fumble over his words as he tried to overcome his superstitions of the mystical. “Your name is Acele...” he said slowly, remembering that from the tavern. He imaged his proud and tribal appearance cut quite the contrast to her clearly softer and more innocent stance. “You are shamaness?” He ventured. His tone was filled with reverance, even respect for her position and abilities. “You can control the green winds? Can you....move the winds over my wounds?” This last question was clearly very hesitant and he gripped the shaft of his blade tightly as he forced himself to ask the request. He was very nervous that his request could be refused. He new there was another shaman with them who had control over other winds and to his mind at least all shamans were connected, regardless of tribes they were connected to each other first and formost. and if he insulted her in some way the other shaman may take offence. Well at least as far as he understood magic which was clearly not very well.