Ragnar had only ever lived in relatively simple, wooden houses. A singed wall meant knocking out that area and replacing it, but this house, this very modern house, was quite a bit different than anything he was used to.

He'd poked at the burnt wall for a bit before finally deciding to give up for the moment to take care of his burns. His wrists were, by far, the worst. The skin looked raw, somewhere between second and third degree burns, the outline of Dodger's hands could just barely be made out. He'd done his best to simply bandage them, unsure if he really needed to go see a healer for some salve, or not.

Going back into the kitchen, it really struck him how much the place reeked of charred wood and... flesh, so he was opening some windows and had just finished propping the door open when Athelstan came in.

Ragnar looked at the charred wall, the cracked dent in the wooden floor, and then back to Athelstan, "What do you think? And... I really do not need you to rub it in right now..."

That was the closest he could come to admitting that Athelstan had been right. Not even that he'd been wrong... just that Athelstan had maybe been more right than Ragnar had.