that it's my turn, says Hroðgar evenly.

The big Dane notices Yngvildr beside him, as she offers the heirloom for his final toss. He takes the masterwork weapon in his hand, turning it over and again thoughtfully.

If it means something special to you, I would be honored. After all, aren't all contests ultimately about honor? I cannot lose with such a weapon...

Downing another amber hornful, Hroðgar turns and aims for the length of a breath. Eyes narrowing, breath held, the broad-shouldered Dane lets the weapon fly. Sizzling through the air with vicious speed, the perfectly aerodynamic blade sings across the room, carving an invisible, deadly path.

With a pronounced, reverberating *thunk*, the blade slams home with incalculable fury, exactly dead-center on the target. Hroðgar turns to the other patrons with a toothy grin.

It would appear that, according to the rules laid down before the tossing began, cousin Theodric and I are tied for the lead...unless, of course, you'd care to dissent, Gerulf...