Ingvoldr's face flushed crimson as she listened to Widimir recount the last evening's festivities, of which it seemed she had been a major part.

Covering her face with her hands to avoid looking any of the remaining revelers in the face, she tried to recall the events of the previous night.

Dancing? Ingvoldr groaned. It could be true, she thought with a shudder. After all, there was that time at her brother's feast day when she'd... oh, better not think of that!

Gradually, the flaxen-haired lass became aware of an interesting sensation emanating from her toes. It was, well, rather, ummmm... nice?

Shoes! she thought with a start. Where are my shoes?

Her alarm faded under the continual warm, wet sensation on her toes. She leaned forward, nodding in rhythm to the delicious lap, lap, lap at her....

"Gods preserve us!" she nearly leapt out of her chair as she spied only the back of her partner Widimir as he knelt under the table and realised what was happening!

"You cad!" she shrieked, beating him on his broad back with her small, sturdy fists.

"Stop that!" she pummeled him again and again...