One word was enough to distract Ronan from his sulking sudden melancholy. "Völva?" Ronan couldn't, or rather wouldn't help himself. He was nineteen, crude, and sometimes irreverent. It took a great deal of effort not to laugh at how similar that word sounded to something else entirely. "Völva," he repeated, shaking his head and smirking.

"God, maybe that's where it comes from," he muttered. "Shit. That's great."

Oh, wait. They were having a serious conversation. Right.

"I don't think so. There are only so many ways to sell you on sacrificing yourself." Ronan pulled his drink closer. "So, the gods ever give you a sign?"