Widimir still snores, sleeping off the results of the night before. What had happened? Had he even really been there? For now he just sleeps but the cold air of the open door slowly stirs him.

What, what happened? I remember nibbling on something sweet and delicious. Then there was all the food that was eaten, and the mead, and ale. Not to forget, he must have danced for miles untill, well, only the gods knew when. The last thing he remembered was that cute girl that was trying to braid his hair.

Igads! She was here too, and it seems just about everyone else that gone to Brunhilda's had spent the night.

Widimirs mouth was dry, and there was a quessiness to be felt deep in his belly. He sat up trying not to upset the still form of Ingvoldr. In a split second, a ray of sun touched his eyes and pierced his brain like a roman javalin. Maybe he should have just stayed laying down. He was just about to do that when suddenly the quessiness became unbearible and Widimir knew he had to get outside quick.

He jumped up and lurched to the door, trying not to trip over anyone in his haste. If mead was the drink of the gods, Widimir was about to be doublely blessed.