The blood and wounds obscured much of Hallbjorn's bulging muscles, but they were all large and perfectly formed. The hard planes of his front were in sharp relief, his abs standing out in a perfect six packs and his pectorals perfect for a woman's nails to sink into. Over his heart there was a blue tattoo in blue ink of three interlocking triangles that modern day scholars called the valknut - the slain warrior's knot. The tip of a black wing curled over his right trapezius muscle, part of a pair of ravens in flight tattooed upon his back.<br/><br/>"The Lore is very confusing." The male responded. "The only utterly enduring truth is to 'never say never.' Everything is possible within the Lore." He spoke softly, dividing his attention between hiding the pain he felt and speaking to her. The large man deduced that she wanted to have him speak to distract from his injuries and the gesture endeared him to her.<br/><br/>"Being a Berserker is a genetic trait that can be passed along through generations, but not all children become Berserkers even if they have the potential to be. My father was not himself a Berserker, nor any other male relatives I had. And a Berserker is not guaranteed immortality like other beings of the Lore. It is only after winning two hundred battles in Wóden's hallowed name that a Berserker earns ohalla: immortality with untold strength. So far as I know, Berserkers alone have to earn eternal life, out of all creatures in the Lore. Most of my kind die on a battlefield before they achieve this." Hallbjorn was not bitter that his god decided to make eternity a prize to be won. He felt only pride that he had succeeded where many others had failed. Frankly, he was glad that many Berserkers had met their ends on the battlefield.<br/><br/>Try as Hallbjorn did, he could not make his eyes turn back to normal while Kara showed such obvious care for him. She went to such great efforts not to pain him. It touched him deeply and the walls of control around his heart were crumbling. While it did hurt, he hid it. That, at least, he could conceal from her. He did not so much as flinch as she wiped away blood or applied antiseptic. The blonde woman made it as painless as it could have been. He was proud that she did not cry. The blond man was responsible for many women crying. He did not care then - or now, really - about it. But he did not want Kara to cry.<br/><br/>"Vampires can be born, or they can be created. It seems most likely that you are a halfling, since your life is much like any other immortal's. But I believe that my brother was made a vampire - I do not think that the vampiric genes can lay dormant in a mortal bloodline only to express suddenly. But I am no expect in these matters, and there was no opportunity to ask my brother about being a vampire. My brother was born many years before I was - when I was thirteen he was already a man fully grown. I did not even know him, really, as a mortal. He accepted the Christ and turned away from our gods, and lived apart from us as a monk with other Christians." There was no rancor in Hallbjorn's voice for this; there was none to keep from his voice. He did not hate his brother for his religious choices. After all, when Helgi was in trouble, he knew where to go: home, to his blood kin. He could have sought sanctuary in a church, but he returned to his people. "The first meeting with him that I remember was when he returned home as a vampire, pursued by nine Berserkers. He was injured and could not defeat them - many of these Berserkers were mere battles away from immortality of their own, and Helgi had never held a sword in his life at that time. But he knew where to turn to for aid. Those Berserkers came to my village and slaughtered everything in their way - men, women, children . . . horses, chickens, cattle - to get to Helgi." Hallbjorn nodded his head approvingly as he spoke. It was a soft, subtle nod, and his approval a subtle, still thing, but it showed well since he tried so hard to show nothing at all.<br/><br/>"Forgive me. This must bore you and do nothing to ease your confusion." The blond man said. "Prattling like an old maid is poor reward for all of your effort, female." More effort than anyone had ever shown for his wounds. Hallbjorn himself had never bothered so much with his own care. He turned his face over to her the corner of his mouth turned up just a little bit in the smallest of half-smiles before it returned to schooled neutrality.<br/><br/>He was so wrapped up in being affected by her touch that he was not sad that his precious sunglasses had been destroyed by the werewolves. The Berserker had a backup pair, but he was not inclined to fetch them at the moment.