The soft roar of thunderous clouds rolls above the sacred land of Wales. Freyr seems to be most dissatisfied with how the mortals have treated his land. Harsh rain cascades down from the darkened clouds above, and the frigid droplets assault all those who scurry throughout the streets. The moon offers little light to those searching for shelter in the night.

One of the many walks through the streets, mostly unaffected by the onslaught of an angry god. He was faced with worse on this earth during his limited lifetime. Askeladd almost challenges Freyr to send worse weather their way because, for a moment, it manages to quell the storm within his soul.

Within the safety of the downpour, he allows a few mournful tears to escape his eyes, which were created the same color as the sky above him.

He mourns the loss of his beloved mother. He mourns the loss of this journey, which has seemed to bring him nothing but misfortune. At least he managed to steal a sack of gold from a pompous noble who was on his way to a brothel.

He searches for a place to reside for the night, a temporary haven from this cruel world. He comes upon a tavern still lively and bright, the weather not dampening the mood. He enters and is immediately astounded by how loud and boisterous the patrons are. Mead is being served left and right as songs of love and jollyness are sung.

He ignores the commotion as he sits on a barrel near the back. He watches every bargoer with a careful eye. Eventually, his eyes end up on a waiter who reminds him of his beloved mother. They bear a striking resemblance in such a way. They address him, and he ends up startled, like a spooked animal.

"What was that?" He inquires while trying to be nonchalant about how he carefully analyzes every part of their body.