Amalasuntha works without rest to prepare the hall for the guests that continue to fill it. Of them are Hildibrands the Amelung, seneschal of Bern; and myself, Amleth the Waetling of Ydalir. Our shields hang from the wall to show that the sons and daughters of our noble races are welcome here. The horn of ale in my hands is bitter to me, though it coaxes me to speak my mind, as drink often does. "Good Thegn Hildibrands, your companionship is invaluable to me. To me you have been brother, father, lord and servant." I raise the horn, "If ever a wassail leaves my lips, it is always to your health and prosperity." Now to the point. "But this ale is how I would imagine rat's piss. Widsith's is the finest tavern in the northlands; I happen to know that Queen Yrsa of Saxland keeps here casks of her own special brew. I've heard that it is made from what was once Kvasir's blood, the mead of inspiration so sweet and intoxicating that it brings to those who drink it the most pleasant of thoughts, the wittiest of quips, the most poetic of verses and wisdom worthy of the Well." My friend's aging eyes narrow when a wicked grin forms across my face. "What say we look for it, eh?"