It had been three days since Freya Russ had taken down black-mawed ice wyrm in the canyon beyond Drekmoor. The carcass still steamed in the frost when her wolves dragged it home, its bones were now being carved into drinking horns and spear hafts.

The Great Hall stank of roast meat, spilled mead, and blood. Skalds howled old victory-songs, and the hearthfire cracked high enough to lick the rafters.

Freya sat atop the high stone seat, helm off, braid still wet with wyrm-blood. Geri dozed beside her feet, while Freki watched the door.

She then continued her story. Standing up and raising her tankard swaying a bit after multiple fills of mead.

"And after that, I tore off its head using only my own hands!"