Leif made a face like he’d bitten into something slightly unpleasant, but not foul enough to spit out. He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard a good pun. Victorians had declared them the highest form of humor, but half of the declarees were high on opium.
Impatience walked hand in hand with directness. Leif shared Hugh’s discomfort as soon as he had his answer. It wasn’t what he expected. “And that’s a little 1000 person village north of Kattegat?” He knew that wasn’t what his pranker had meant, but it bought him a moment to think.
Leif was not a religious man. His parents had raised him to respect their Gods and their traditions, but actually believing in the religion of their people, of their homeland, had never been taken seriously. Leif’s grandfather had been made part of their ‘end times’ prophecy, for fuck’s sake. None of it was real; all exaggerated hearsay told around campfires. None of it was real.
But he’d seen the raven. Hugh was not a Were. So that left...
Once certain that there were no students within earshot, the younger northman fixed the other with a flat, chilly stare. But he was calm. It could barely be called a reaction at all. “Tell me more.”