Four fighters who had been advancing to attack Bjorn suddenly froze, their eyes staying on the blood-soaked Viking standing before them, his warhammer resting casually on his shoulder, his grin wide and feral. His posture, the confidence radiating from him, made the obscuron's men reconsider their approach.
And then, as if some unspoken agreement had passed between them, they turned and started to retreat.
Bjorn's grin faded, replaced by a look of genuine disappointment. He sighed, the sound deep and exaggerated, his shoulders sagging slightly as if he had just been told the most boring news imaginable.
"Why die like cowards, eh?" he shouted after them, his voice carrying across the battlefield with that thick Viking accent. "Now you would be a failure even in death!"
He shifted his grip on the warhammer, the muscles in his arms flexing as he adjusted his stance, and then he hurled the weapon forward with so much force that the air itself seemed to crack from the velocity.
