The fire is what catches your eye. Its roaring, aggressive girth dwarfs anything inside or outside the hall. During the blustery winter months, men only dream of having a blaze that provides the same sense of assurance and safety. It took hours to fuel, and now spits and fumes determinedly,contented in its maturity.
The eve has been glorious. Song broke out even before the spindly trees had swallowed up the falling sun, and I remain unaware of how long we've hunkered around this great fire, yelling, chanting, and consuming.
I can see the storyteller is still enjoying himself. It matters not one way or the other whether he stays that way. I'm sure the crowd will listen to his story as long as he tells it, and not hesitate to beat a better story out of him if the current one should become lacking. In his fortunate case, the threat of death is out of the question. The Chief might not be able to take the stress of having to find another replacement storyman.
Chief is older. Still competent, though. Still enthusiastically stabbing and ripping through the deer meat with his fantastic dagger. I doubt any of us will ever learn how he came by that particular utensil. Capable braggart as he is, the Chief somehow forgot to ever reveal the origins of the ancient, jewelled knife that spends most of its time strapped conveniently to his thigh.
I'm not that drunk. Yet. As far as I can tell, thinking is still as effortless as I like it. After all, the longer one stays sober, the more enjoyment one can glean from the tussling of the warriors lacking similar restraint. Hmm, it seems that the grimy Easterner is engaged. Forget the bards, there's no better accompaniment to such things than the voracious brutes that surround them and cheer them on.
Ahh, good hit.
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