...you should have seen it. Try throwing with your eyes open next time...

A hint of a smile plays across Hrothgar's lips as he gingerly fingers the slim blade of his knife...

Your sister, you say? That would be appropriate, because from what I've heard, your sister knows full well that the size of the tool matters not...it's how one uses it.

Hrothgar grabs his horn, freshly full, and imbibes its contents with gusto. Wiping his moustache, he turns to the Frieslander.

You know, I was once asked to join Friesland's army, but they found out my parents were married...

With that, the Dane's thick-hewn arm is a blur, and the sax whips from his hand with lethal speed, whistling a deadly arc towards the wall of the mead-hall. It embeds itself with shocking fury into the wall a hair's breadth from dead center of the target, quivering in place as though it were alive. Hrothgar turns to Gerulf with an ingratiating smile.

Your turn...husbandman...