"None of this is free..." he laughed a little, as he reached into his robe. A bottle moved over two aluminum cups, label hidden inside the fabric, and he handed one over. The liquid was unique, the golden bitterness of finest whisky coupled with the deep, rich aroma of an unknowable flavour that Ivar might one day come to know as coffee. "To charge for hospitality, to put a price on fire... What a hardscrabble life you must have lived! My friend, for my story look at my hands," he held them out. "The hands of a child," he said. "Hands without callouses. No sword held I, no spear, no tool, no chisel. Hands that had not done a day's honest labour in their lifetime. What sense might such a story make to you? What value such a name? No, we must turn our eyes to the only question that matters: the destination."

He chuckled darkly, a grinding half-grunt in a set of three, just enough to establish that it was not a mistake or a clearing of the throat. He held up a scrap of meat to his raven who gave him what could only be described as a dirty look. He shrugged and ate it himself.

"My destination, then," he said, looking up through thunderous eyebrows. "Is not victory. That is not sufficient for my purposes - I want something else, something that can only be accomplished in this world. Were I to achieve it then I would have no use for victory. And so I'll offer you a bargain. Give me the head of your Master, broken wretch though she is. I will supply you with the mana and the arsenal you require for your victory - and, when you ask for it and I have accomplished my ends, I shall offer you my head as well."