At the sound of an unfamiliar voice Floki turned - slowly, the laughter stopping abruptly, his hand moving towards the hatchet at his belt - making a mental note to thank the Gods for allowing him this one mistake, and to avoid making any others. Becoming distracted in unfamiliar territory, without Ragnar's hird at his back (or his front, where he preferred them), was a foolish, childish error, and he was lucky he had not been struck down because of it. Lucky, lucky Floki.
He tilted his head to the side, frowning, straining to make out the words. Gibberish, but... familiar gibberish. Sort of.