“Ragnarok. Is that all the North ever thinks about? Is that what you want, Snorri? Some great battle and the world ruined and dead?” I couldn’t blame him if he did. Not with what had befallen him this past year, but I would be disturbed to know he had always lusted after such an end, even on the night before the black ships came to Eight Quays. The light kindling on my torch caught him in midshrug. “Do you want the paradise your priests paint for you on cathedral ceilings?” “Good point.”
Book:Prince of Fools
