I stand smugly, with my fists on my hips, rocking back and forth on my heels, and staring up at the great, grim faces of Yrsa's five guards. The shoulders of these barbarian hulks are as broad as my ship, and their black, bristling beards tangle as one into the great, heavy bear skins upon their backs. Their eyes are all obscured by the low, emotionless brow of their iron helmets, which appear to have been fitted directly onto their thick heads by the smith!

"So..." I begin, still completely uncertain as to what I will actually say. Hildibrands stands nearby, a foot or so behind, with his arms crossed. He's not as confident as I, it would seem. The guards' hands rest upon the pommels of their inverted axes, which perch upright upon the stone ground in front of them. The guard closest to me chews ambiguously, as though mulling a mouthful of cud. Ah, I should get to the point. "I understand this store of ale you're protecting is that of the Queen of Saxland." I straighten my leather hauberk and rub my chin with my gloved hand. "I don't suppose you're permitted to merely give the stuff away to total strangers, but this is your lucky day, lads." I'm in rare form, I can tell. Though I wonder what "rare form" I will end up in after this confrontation. "The good thegn Hildibrands and myself are willing to pay handsomely for a cask of your Lady's brew. My brother is Wulder, Eorl of Ydalir, and it is all over the Northlands how he has recently come into quite a good amount of wealth. I've yet to see the riches myself, but every thegn and thrall from Thule to Thrace will tell you so!"

The soldiers don't budge. And they don't have to. As it is, we've no way of getting past them to Kvasir's Mead. And I have no intention of standing down, so there's only one alternative. My hand falls upon the hilt of Mistilteinn, and I look back to see if Hildibrands is as willing with Lagulf. The odds are bad, I know. But I'd have it no other way!