The Blót was in full swing upon this Winter Solstice of 984. People chatting over mead, the blood of their sacrifices written upon the walls for their Gods, and the sacrifice’s remains handed to the honorable to eat upon after its initial ritual. This time it was a goat, no canabilisim involved of prisoners or enemies.

The host of this Blót, Sigríð, was standing nearby you as you stood in the corner of the area, not exactly wanting social interaction, and only wishing for the company of the runestones sitting near you.

Sigríð notices you sulking in the corner, not even having a horn of mead to drink away on. She walks over to you, her horn of mead in hand.

“You don’t drink with merriment, my friend. Mind if I ask why?”