"I found a knife you made," Ivar clarifies without Curufin having asked, if only so he can lead into: "It was made of metal I'd never even seen before." He'd tried asking Maglor about it, but he hadn't seemed to know enough about the specifics of Mithril to satisfy Ivar's curiosity. Ivar is certainly no smith himself, but he is more interested probably than most in the strength and sharpness of metals and the craftsmanship of weapons.

Speaking of which, he tilts his head at the question, surprise and interest flitting across his face in turns. Curufin is maybe the first person he's ever met to assume he could have a vocation, that he was doing something with himself outside of Being Crippled full time. Ivar's idle curiosity threatens to grow into something more, even just from that one small question.

"I am a Viking," he smiles, though probably that means as little to people here as being the son of Ragnar Lothbrok does. A raider, he means. Someone vicious and awful to bring glory to his own gods, not these strange ones in this place. "And I command a great army."