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	With a tankard in his hand and his feet almost in the fire of the hearth in an attempt to dry his boots, Bjørn found himself satisfied for the day. He allowed a sigh to pass his lips before gulping down some ale, licking the remains out of his moustache. - Yes. These were the things he really appreciated after a long day of work. His arms had longed stopped aching from having gotten used to hard work, and his hands had gotten accustomed to the sting of wooden splinters from carrying around wooden logs all day. Still, it was work that had to be done and he was happy to help out and earn himself a drink and a warm plate at the end of the day. 

Slowly the sound of laughing, shouting, and singing had died down within the tavern as a group of armed men rushed by. Interested, some around him had gotten up to get to the window, trying to peer through it to see what was going on outside. Soon enough the mumbling started as people were beginning to assume things. One said something about bandits, another spoke of wolves, until everyone had another vague story about what was happening. More than once, however, beasts were mentioned. 
Easily drawn to battle, the idea that something was going on somewhere in or around town had Bjørn strangely excited. He had been looking over the rim of his drinking cup, staring out of the window where the last guard now quickly passed by, trying to keep up with his mates. Had it not been for the ale that now spilled past his lips, quickly dripping down his beard and onto his lap, he would've still been staring at that very same spot, waiting for something else to happen. Instead it made him snap out of it, cursing under his breath as he quickly wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

Having decided that he wouldn't sit here while elsewhere there was chaos, so he rose to his full height, gulping down the remaining ale while his other hand was already resting on his axe. He ached for battle. He ached for danger. Slamming the tankard down, he then quickly made his way outside, pushing through the crowd and probably causing one or two patrons to get knocked off of their chairs. Not on purpose, might I say. 

As Bjørn left the warmth of the tavern behind, stepping out into the night, he could see some others leaving the building. He could just catch the glimpse of a man, whose face was hidden beneath his hood, pass by him. There was little attention paid to him as there were other matters on Ulfrikson's mind. He had to catch up with those guards. Though disliking it very much - which was still an understatement - he started to march down the road, following the path which he assumed the guards had taken. His heavy steps could be heard from a mile away as he continued his way through the labyrinth that was Galloway. Luckily he wasn't the only one who seemed to be tracking the men, for he soon decided to follow yet another cloaked figure. - What was it with these cloaks, though? Bjørn couldn't imagine a comfortable situation while running around with a hood pulled over your head which had to be sliding up and down, or wherever it decided to go, obstructing the wearer's sight. Or he just didn't know how to properly wear a cloak.