His hands were ice cold, and as always heavily scarred from both his youth on the battle field and years of felling trees. "No understand... much." He spoke, trying his best to pull the words out again, He knew he was doing this just fine before.

....What had happened in the woods? What was it he couldn't recall.

When she repeated that word he spoke far to often he shook his head, some of the icey water dripping off his bangs onto her hands when he did. ...Come on he new he had heard it in english. "Bad words." He motioned to himself. "No good. Þú ert góður, ég er óguðlega. Sama hvernig ég reyni að breyta ... ég get það ekki." He then motioned to her. "Good."