He looks for his sword, but it's not there; nor is his armour, or his helmet.

"I'd ask that of you!" he says. "What have you done to my weapons, why do you live in such a decadent room that looks like a Byzantine whore's dream home, and -- what in the name of Hel have you done to Garm?"

The dog snoring so familiarly at the foot of the bed definitely looks nothing like the big shaggy red wolf-hound he was expecting.

"What nasty witch-plant did you put in my mead?"